Manifest Destiny
by BlueWay
Summary: "War is the motherfucking answer." - Cpl. Josh Ray Person, Generation Kill
1. 0-1: The Wrong Place - The Wrong Time

_Disclaimer: The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story._

* * *

 _Summary: Rangers led the way. That was the motto of the unit a 2nd Lieutenant Kristian "JK" Emerson had taken to heart as a part of its ranks, though when a gateway from one world to Earth opens up a mere few hundred feet away from him during a nice day in August, he will have to be not only a man leading soldiers into foreign lands, but also have to lead himself as the moral anchor in a world decades removed from Generation Kill._

* * *

 ** _Manifest Destiny_**

 ** _By: Matthew "BlueWay" N._**

* * *

 ** _Beginning of Intro_**

 ** _Intro Section 0-1_**

* * *

With the way his friends had often called the man "JK", people assumed the six foot, eleven stone man to be a funny man despite his imposing form (at least in Japan). In private company, he was liable to be amiable, and so it wasn't that far off from the truth. The origin had been a bit different though.

His real name had been Kristian Emerson, his first name a distortion of a very popular faith which he had taken in vain as the first words he said in boot camp:

 _"Jesus Christ!"_ As was the response to being scared by the Drill Sergeant.

 _"How dare you take the name of JC in vain!"_

A colorful exchange later and suddenly the name JC was his own, and eventually, given the odd use of K in his name, it had turned into JK. "Kay" for short. Words were often in short supply in tense situations.

It stuck five years later by those who knew him in the military service. So whenever he heard it, he was either being called to attention as a junior officer, or his subordinates had been giving him shit.

Either way someone screaming it had called him certainly brought him to full steam, having fallen asleep on that bench against a convenience store, head back and bathing in the warm sun of a spring in Tokyo.

The man was a 2nd Lieutenant of the US Armed Forces, trained by a fighting force with a several centuries experience, so when he woke up he had woke up as men of readiness do: with a snap to his feet with quickness that made the breath leave his lungs.

Needless to say that the giant crowd of people that brushed past him unorderly on the street had also stolen his breath as he regained his wits and unconsciously swung his head toward the source of the voice that called his name.

"Jay-Kay! Jay-Kay!"

The man's voice returned to him as the swirl of people brushing past him had forced him back onto the bench, overwhelmed.

Dragging him off the bench no sooner than he had sat down had been the man calling his name, brushing him into the entry way of the convenience store and pressing their forms against the glass.

Combat stances, defensive posturing.

Training kicked in and Kay's body had bent, short sleeves and jeans not exactly that of a man who had been trained for war.

"Dammit Kay, you with me?" The man's hand had been at his shoulder, the man himself behind Jay-Kay as stacking on a wall would necessitate in training.

"Fire break out or something at the convention?" the man had groggily said as his vision returned to him, the situation fully enveloping his eyes as chaos passed by his eyes.

"Cosplayers gone wild, I don't **_fucking_** know!"

The beat of war drums, the blare of horns, and all that pomp and power of an unseen army was in the air as the roar of monsters came from overhead. Literal monsters of a winged variety and made the air beneath its wings bellow and people collapse.

It had sure put a shadow over the 2nd lieutenant and the sergeant who had dragged them an into the entry way of the convenience store.

"The fuck is happening Cameron?!"

"Stay in, stay in…" Staff Sergeant Cameron Masterson had been otherwise occupied with waving off the bystanders in the store to stay in and lock the door, but he had quickly reaffirmed the attention of his 2nd lieutenant. It was the first time Kay had gotten a look at one of his two squad leaders that day fully.

Time off base had been plentiful recently, and as such a few of the more enterprising men under his command had been interested in coming to Tokyo during this one odd "comic book" convention that they had explained to Kay.

Of course he was by no means obligated to babysit the two men that went out into Tokyo specifically, but the day was nice and heh ad been behind the desks making Power Points way too much recently.

But if he knew that Masterson would have half of his face covered with blood, an arrow in his grip with the hole it made in his right shoulder, he thought he should've been paying closer attention.

"Wha- But?" Kay shook his head fast, the sound of pattering arrows in the distance and of thumpy concrete impacts triggering a part of his head he had not used yet despite all his years as a soldier. His vocabulary adjusted likewise. "Sitrep!"

The combat high. The rush of adrenaline. It was what kept Masterson still coherent and brought Kay out in all of his senses.

The vocabulary that had been punched into his head had not accommodated dragons, ballistic weapons that had comprised of arrows, and (a lean over the corner later) ranks of troops comprised of an ugly Disney movie.

Pigs, ogres, horses and Legion.

A Disney movie gone wrong indeed, and behind them: something that Kay, nor did anyone else, remember seeing stand several story highs in the middle of the intersection. An elaborate work of stone and masonry that Japan had long and away forgot of amidst steel and glass.

"I got split up with Tracey a few minutes ago, the man pulled the fire alarm in the convention center and I lost track of him! I saw a god damned battalion sized force and more coming on the way here!"

"Battalion of what?" Kay had asked, more bite returning into his throat as his fists had unconsciously formed into fists.

"Don't know, don't care. We'll call them hostiles for now." Masterson's hand had wiped away at his bloodied face, only to return to the arrow that had done the damage.

"You inop sergeant?"

He wiped his face over with a bloody hand inadvertently, panting hard. "I'll live."

Of all the enemies that, perhaps, Kay had thought he would have to fight against: narco terrorists, the remnants of the North Korean home army, maybe the occasional pirates south of India, he had never thought of, or prepared to, fight Romans.

Nothing to say about dragons. _Especially_ dragons.

Not when one of the very living beasts had flown over particularly close to the street, the rider adorned in silver armor, and spying two men that did not run as the mass of people did.

Those who stayed their feet had been a threat, that much was evident from any amateur tactician that every soldier was. So when the eyes had caught across sky and ground, there was an initial of hostilities between soldier and soldier.

It was needless to be said the high ground belonged to the dragon rider.

The rider had hauled his reins toward the two men, going around in a circle, the dragon's armored head very much upfront.

The two men knew what was coming, twisting back around as their throats gave an involuntary yelp, their legs bashing in the door and diving in as those inside had seen the same fate approach them.

The surrealness of having a dragon charge at them had certainly necessitated bashing in the glass door of the store and diving in with seconds to spare, the great body of that giant lizard smashing against the building as its head dove in the same way as the two soldiers, the civilians inside running to the back of the store and inside, leaving two men and the head of a beast cramming around ruined shelves and displays.

Infernal growling and the most morbidly hot breath the two soldiers had ever smelled had been revealed as the dragon opened its mouth in the confined space, its head shaking around as its neck had caught itself by the frame of what used to be the storefront. There was ample room for it to move its head around, the glowing yellow eyes and the very real scales inches from the collapsed men on the floor, glass and debris digging into their back.

The great monsters they had been usually familiar with had been those of metal and steel. Inanimate objects given life by the marvels of human work. This had been a monster able to stare back at them, and stare back at them it did as it jerked its head as to kill them.

On the ground the men had ended up besides each other as the dragon tried to move its mouth to envelop them in the small space, the great noise it made thrashing about outside with its wings deafening.

The two pair of legs had gone to the dragon's chin, futilely trying to push it away, but the only force those pair of legs had had pushed the men away, giving them enough momentum to get on their feet and stand eye to eye with the dragon. Or, at least, its right eye.

The rider had been yelling in a foreign language, trying to get into the shop off its beast's back, but the dragon had been too chaotic, dealing with two men it had very much had the right to eat for breakfast.

Kay had gone up with a piece of glass in his hand, and Masterson had the arrow's blade. They were weapons and this was the enemy. They knew what they had to do.

Of course, maybe stabbing the dragon's head hadn't been the best course of action for Kay, the first stab having the glass recoil back into his hand, impaling it hard with his own injury as Masterson did the same to much less effect.

" ** _Christ!_** Like god damn tank armor!" Kay's yelling hadn't been a concern of the dragon, its head jerking left and slamming the man into the refrigeration units of the store, the men left without breath as both of them finally started breathing.

It would've been all that had been written for the two men as the dragon opened its mouth and made for the men, but one of the children behind the counter had his ingenuity save the men in the form of a lighter and a spray can of aerosol.

It was a flame that had been simply nothing more than a pilot light to the Dragon, but it was a distraction nonetheless as that young Japanese boy in his t-shirt had ducked back down the counter, throwing the two objects at the dragon's gray scales to little effect, let alone the armor.

Time enough for its eyes to shift from the two men to the boy, and those two men to naturally go at the dragon's eyes with bare hands.

The consistency of jello and eggs. The men would remember this as they tore into the organ of the beast, reaching in with all the primeval rage of it in a display of gore and retribution that the men did not mind. It's not like this was another man of course: digging into and eventually pulling out as the dragon's lids tried to shut, but instead had been torn the same as that mass of unidentifiable substance that was once its eyes, now dug into the finger nails of two soldiers. The flap of flesh had gone to the floor as they had gone right back in.

Its head had thrashed about, but the men had found hold this time, heels dragging across the store as the place was given more mess.

Kay had looked right, across his sergeant, hands deep into the dragon's head.

"Cam on your three o'clock!"

The dragon rider had finally made his way into the store amidst all the thrashing, the sound of an ancient sword being drawn like old poetry alerting the men before Kay had shouted out his warning.

The sword had gone past Cam's face as he jerked back, just barely stopping before Kay's head as Cam had shoved himself back into the outstretched arms of the apparently Roman soldier, the sword clattering on the ground as he had shifted right hard and brought the man on the ground in a clatter of metal armor.

With a squelch Kay's hands had been torn out, the sword in his grip as he had used his foot to get Cam off the man, the sword coming down before the Roman had used his feet to shove Kay away.

Down through the flesh, into the floor, and up again. Stabbing like a pulsating saw. Unconsciously Kay had been screaming: **_hard_**. Metal had melded into flesh as Cam had stomped onto the man's head, helmet bending into a man unable to breathe as the sword had eventually made its way to stab his lungs in a horrific display: The first kill of men and women.

With little ceremony as Cam had used his foot and dragged his body away, before the two soldiers reassumed gouging the eyes out of the dragon, not concerned with the mess they had made.

Cam did his best with his bare hands, but the sword in Kay's hand had been put to better use, the man sliding underneath the dragon's neck and dragging across the soft underside like wood against the grain.

The splatter of blood was very audible as the dragon had ceased its own breathing, and slammed on the floor, both inside and out.

Everyone had lost their breath really, the victors collapsing on that giant mass of dragon as it gave out its last death twitch, unprepared for what they just did but certainly prepared to continue to do it as the day went on.

Many consider the first battle to be the longest one: the rite of passage for men and women to prove their worth as a warrior.

As such, this would be the longest day.

"Ho-… Holy shit." Cam's first words had been appropriate as he panted, still bloody as ever, his Ell-Tee just as covered now given the maneuver that pretty much bathed him in blood.

It was a baptism that sobered him as he reemerged on the other side, his green eyes cold.

This was how wars started: in the hearts of men.

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _n._

 _1\. A policy of imperialistic expansion defended as necessary or benevolent._

 _American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fifth Edition._

* * *

A freezer door had been more a weapon than a used arrow blade Masterson had realized, and the sword which I had acquired was the one which I had called my own now.

Ivory handles and a sharpened blade. It was certainly an eye opening thing that had no right to exist as the two men had ran away from the staging point of the enemy, just below that stone gate.

We found ourselves just behind enemy lines in a battlefield we had realized, and run we did.

Running fast enough toward the sound of gunfire: of the foot patrol police officers on the scene.

We were soldiers and we were trained to do this: run toward gunfire.

Of course we were never really trained to weather arrow fire as Masterson had nearly gone insane about, I having crunched up into his stomach as the arrows came down, his clear freezer door shielding us from bolts that had killed so many around us.

The enemy knew force consolidation and they weren't pushing past their staging point yet, leaving the advance units of dragon riders and arrows deal with any "opposition" in front of them initially.

What opposition? Civilians? Children? They had been cutting those down plenty, as much as they tried to kill us.

Bodies of those in Tokyo had littered the streets: scorched, bled out, violent demises not fit for this world anymore.

In essence, I had feared my purpose:

This was what I was trained for, to protect those who cannot stand on their own. Yet here I was in the middle of the street, staring down an army that came from thin air with only one other soldier, the bodies of those I failed to help around me, taunting.

We weren't running away, of course, we were just in tactical retreat in between the volleys of arrows that battering the plexiglass of Miller's door.

Such an abstract situation for such a normal boy I thought I was.

A twenty five year old boy born and raised in the Bronx, come to Japan as part of the United States Force presence in Asia, now having a dragon and its rider to my name. To think my first combat was against these idiots, whoever they were, or whatever, instead of a conventional fighting force we had expected in training… well, there was a part of sarcasm in my brain that highlighted the whole situation as simply FUBAR.

Not that the dead would appreciate it.

No romanticisms today. I could write a book about it in a few years. I would live in the now with an emphasis on live.

"Clear!" Masterson had yelled into my ear as another patter had hit the door and subsided, the cracking spiders of impact very much there.

I had yelled incoherently as I pointed my hand around a corner, a dragon going into that corner to the sound of gunfire. We ran fast, Masterson reassuming front position as I held onto his shoulder in trail, sword in my other hand.

The dragon that had gone around the corner had been one of many dozens, those having storm through that stone monstrosity and promptly lost visual of throughout Tokyo. Raiders, stir up hell throughout this city of order.

One of the many snaps of gunfire offered by those who could shoot back had been around this corner. A police officer, taking potshots at that dragon that had tried to swoop at him.

The man had actually taken one of the riders out on the pass, the target falling to the ground in clatter right next to the bridge several of the civilians were taking shelter under, his body falling like a heavy angel to the concrete Earth.

No sooner than he had fallen, he had gotten up.

We had rounded the corner enough for arrows to be no factor, Masterson throttling ahead and bashing the Roman before he had closed the distance between the police officer with the door, sending him back into the arms of a ready Japanese man, a lanky individual with cargo shorts and the arms that wrapped around the Roman's neck and brought him down to the ground

I had caught up just in time to make us the holy trio of blood stained fighters, the sword that this Roman had tried to draw knocked to the street, grabbed by the Japanese man, and stuck through his collar bone down in the gap between clothes and armor.

The man was dead, and the survivor had looked up at us, blood splatter on his face.

He hit a vein.

He had glanced over us once or twice before yelling back at the police officer.

"Are you alright?!"

Behind the police officer had been a few civies, perhaps a little more mortified by the tree bloodied men that had appeared before them, the look in the Japanese killer's eye a scary glare. A second glance and a dead cop.

The conquering heroes: A Texan, a black man, and whoever this person was. Swords in our hands and a very damaged freezer door as our shield. We were a welcome pair of weekend warriors.

Not that we were weekend warriors. No. We were soldiers, full and full. Not National Guard, not just some regular riflemen attached to the USFJ.

Rangers led the way, and here we were up and front fulfilling our mantra.

Civies didn't respond, and no sooner than that Masterson had coasted them away under the cover of the bridge, the sword drawn out as the man came up to us instead.

Japanese cartoon shirt if I ever seen one. That's what he had worn and now ruined, the man's build just shy of me and Masterson's heights, thin face, eyes a tricky bronze with a stubble underlining.

We both spoke Japanese, me and Masterson, it was something handy to have on hand seeing as we lived and breathed Japanese air as Americans.

"Coins out, Cam." And they were out, the four slices of metal that had been pressed in our name, for our name. Outlined by black rubber, they held our names, and showed our distinction.

He showed his.

Japanese Self Defense Force. _The Jietai_.

"You alright there buddy?" I had asked, the off duty JSDF soldier having risen with his sword too. Soldier to soldier, man to man.

"I'm fine. You?" he asked, the sword dripping with crimson. We all were at this point.

"A little worse for wear, but nothing too out of it." I answered, my hand ripped to all hell. Masterson had still been bleeding, but a very rough application of gauze from the store had fixed that up. He had been a tough man though, skin as rough as the cattle he had used to take care of in his younger age.

We gave each other the once over, of what we had been through in the last five minutes that binded us together for perhaps the rest of our lives.

Right men, in the wrong place, at the right time.

Brother always told me I had that habit of being a wrong man.

Now we were all brothers in arms though.

Police officer remained, his .38 a comfort to have around for us. Doubted Romans had ever fought on people who had guns.

Or trained Army Rangers. Whatever the case. Not like the armor had saved the man he had put down: as fully fucking Roman as they came.

"How good are you with crowd control, trooper?" I asked him.

"Good enough. Already got a plan." He talked in short bursts, the man out of breath. Oh yeah, he had just had his first kill too. The fast ripple of Japanese that he had shot to the officer had been untranslatable to me as I had grabbed onto the man's shoulder for a second, holding it, pulling him to keep moving down the street.

"Walk and talk trooper. Name, plan."

Masterson had already been corralling people into the cover of the bridge as the dragons had perpetually circled us. Our feet had urged us into a fun west down the street.

"Itami Yoji, and officer!"

The said officer had reloaded his .38 hectically in our stride. What I would do for my M9 now. The sword would have to do.

"Where are we routing the civilians?"

"We don't-"

Itami saw right through the lack of plan. "Get them to the Imperial Palace, now!"

"The Imperial Palace?!" The officer had seemed outrage, but he had seen the way me and Masterson got behind him. Fight off god damn Roman enemies in a god damn time appropriate location meant to weather such

The main force were coming, an actual god damn cavalry with the promise of war horses.

No time to argue, no time to fight, all you can do is run. Not even time to question if this all was a dream, a fantasy, a fucked in the head scenario that made me dream of dead covering Tokyo streets and dragon slaying.

"Make the call!" Masterson had yelled at him, and he appeased, frantically yelling at his radio as every civilian tried to find their own way, a noticeable group of them following our lead warily.

"Itami!" I said his name without formality. "We'll back you up, you know this town?"

"I know what to do." Was the answer he gave.

Masterson had been clutching onto the shield he had made, his hands welded onto it, leaving me with the free hand.

"You gotta raise Yokota. Don't know if the USFJ has deployment authority but we need boots down here real fast… Same goes for you Itami."

"Getting the civilians a place to settle down comes first, military response will follow." The JSDF soldier in question had said lowly, all of us occasionally pointing out civilians overwhelmed by it all and frozen, urging them to get on their feet and move.

"Man knows his priorities." I reaffirmed. "And yeah, we'll raise HQ when possible."

"Plus we'll go grab kits and find Tracey, right?"

"Tracey's a smart man, he knows his way in a fight."

"Well, respectfully sir, this is more than a fight we have on our hands." His Houston drawl had tensed against the fact that indeed one of my men was missing. He had a point, oh, he really did, but priorities and prerogatives.

Hell, we had taken down a dragon, I'm sure Tracey could've held his own. Least I hoped to God he had. Guy was a pointman, he knew his way around some physical contact.

A pair of horse riders had caught up to our back, the three of us twisting around as the cop raised his gun.

Itami had been quick to wave the man off: "Go! We'll cover you!"

"Cam! Give me the fridge!" He had thrown the clear door over to me without question as he received my phone in return. "Go with the cop and organize the retreat, then raise Colonel Andrade and let him know he has us on the ground."

"And also try to get them into the Palace grounds! They won't survive otherwise!"

The two men of action had been reluctant, but they had gone anyway, Masterson, perhaps a little jokingly, uttering an "Honor to serve with you". Not like we actually ever served in these type of days.

Freezer door's handle had been wrapped in my left hand, sword in my right as two scouting legionnaires saw us take a stand, Itami getting behind me and bracing my shoulder.

"Name's Kristian by the way. Kay for short…" I had rumbled as the horse ground its hooves onto, to it, unfamiliar ground. "I don't imagine you wanted to spend the day like this?"

"Of course not. I personally wanted to pick up some doujinshi from the exhibit…" I had shared a chuckle with him. He almost sounded sad. "They're gonna cancel it now no doubt!"

"You trying to save these people or you trying to save your comic book convention?"

"Can't I do both?"

I shook my head as the horse had flayed itself up, giving a war cry on its own. No, you couldn't. Didn't give him that answer, if a man needed his motivation he had it.

The riders had drawn their sword to a sharp sound of them being drawn, the fifty meters or so between us being closed as the lead horse had landed its four hooves back on the ground and took after us, head on.

We both scrunched up as the two men beasts approached us, their rider's swords up high ready to come down.

"I got right." Itami had warned, the fridge door lifted above our heads as he ran toward them.

"Above the legs, below its neck. Go!"

The horses and their riders had almost seemed to be taken aback that we had charged as well, the glint of the fridge door making them stumble a bit as we both jointly closed the distance, their charge unbroken save for the fact we would strike first.

Given the width of the door when it was brought horizontal it had split the two horses down the middle as it was dropped and we each went our own ways, the riders swords brought off balance as our own blades found their mark:

Itami's slice finding home just on the horse's jugular and I having found a stab just where my horse's front left leg had its joint connect to its chest.

Both horses had gone tumbling forward, my rider crushed beneath his beast's weight as the other was relatively safely flung forward behind us, our attention centered on him as the fridge door was shattered in aluminum and plexiglass.

Even with a bent neck this rider had spent no time getting on his two feet and drawing his sword again, bringing it up to his lips and kissing it as he pointed toward the both of us.

"On your six, Itami." I had put my hand on his shoulder again, stacking up, he giving an affirmative grunt as both of his hands were occupied with his weapon. I had done the same, if only after I had shoved my sword across the thick neck of the war horse left wheezing in agony, the cry it gave out one of a mercy killing.

The slow trod of us closing the distance again had been a measured walk, three fighters, two on one and maybe an army just behind us.

The sound of two swords clashing had been the loudest thing I heard all day as Itami's and this Roman clashed swords. The perpetual screaming of panicking men, women and children had subsisted, let alone them themselves as they still ran along the roads and sidewalks: ignoring us as we tried to buy them time by fighting: even in the smallest capacity.

I had ducked around Itami and behind the rider, but the man's other hand had found a backup sword to deflect my stab into his side, sending it almost into Itami as he had ducked from the sword lock and to our sides.

These men were trained sword fighters…

I feigned a lunge at him, the swordman barely flinching as Itami went at him, his sword brought up again as the soldier brought a slash down. One hand had been enough to deflect the blow as I went for his legs, the smaller blade instead redirecting me up, my torso revealed fully as he tried to stab me in turn, I simply collapsing on my back as the same sword swung on the rebound toward Itami's side.

I had screamed another involuntary war cry as my free hand pushed me up and off the ground, my sneakers kicking in the man's shins as the attack was thwarted and his strength faltered for a second. Enough time for Itami to ride his own blade along his sword and cut off a good few portion of the man's right hand fingers.

Given my position I simply kept up with the leg work, right leg finding the space in between and gator rolling, the Roman brought down in a storm of metal as Itami followed suit: through the heart of the Legionnaire.

No sooner than he had done that he had left the sword in the Roman, free hands hauling me up, and leading me into a run as he saw what I didn't: an entire column of phalanx troopers, shields and all, slowly making their way down the road like the epic battles of old.

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _n._

 _1\. the belief or doctrine, held chiefly in the middle and latter part of the 19th century, that it was the destiny of the U.S. to expand its territory over the whole of North America and to extend and enhance its political, social, and economic influences._

 _Random House Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2015._

* * *

I had only been there to add and clarify the man's shouts in English, he having taken command of this whole botched retreat operation really well. He had the right idea anyway: ordering the volunteer firemen who had appeared and shuttled us down to the Imperial Palace to head back down the mass crowd of Tokyo escapees and use their water cannons to at least try and wave off the ground force.

Amazingly the sky had been on fire with fireworks and flares, the only things able to shoot back at the dragons on short notice as they ever loomed in the sky, they having combined with the sound of the police's small arm fire that barely did anything against the thick skin.

Even portions of the city had been on fire given the reports of ballistas and artillery made of coal, rock, and flaming boulders came from Ginza by catapult.

All that smoke, all that chaos had gone to the sky above as nature gave us a gray overcast.

One of the many emergency personnel had been attending to the arrow head in Masterson's shoulder, even as he had been yelling into my smartphone, right on the steps of the security booth me and Itami had gotten to.

"Barricade all the civilians in the Imperial Palace!" It was maybe the third time Itami had said that to the police officers inside, this time being the one that grabbed their attention, as Masterson ended the call and buried his hands in his heads, finally biting down on the piece of bark given to him by the medics as one of them started digging into his shoulder: adding to the screams that day.

I had only ran a bloody hand through his hair reassuringly as that bloody print was put on the frame of the door, leaning in to back Itami up.

"They got nowhere else to go and this palace was specifically made to withstand the type of battle we're seeing!" I barked.

That had only seemed to bounce off one of the two officers, his hand on the phone that was constantly ringing inside that booth.

"Who the hell are you?!"

"Just follow our directions sir."

We gave each other a glance, not believing what we were hearing. Sure, we could've pulled the soldier card, but our tags had blended into our shirts given the blood splatter on us. As if they couldn't see it.

Didn't these guys know what was happening just a few hundred meters away?!

He gave me a nod and let me take the floor, and bask in all the glory of a handful of kills to my name.

"If you don't let those people in there will be a god damned massacre at the Emperor's feet. Trust me, it's bad out there."

The sound of a distant explosion, perhaps a building caving in, had been the punctuation of the reality we had seen out there.

Speak of the devil.

Phone rang, and after the police officer had barked into his phone wanting a sitrep of where the riot police were, he had paled.

"Inspector here-!"

After his screaming had subsided and the piece of steel that had been lodged in his shoulder had been torn out to much drama, Masterson had grinned as he had looked in from his sit on the steps.

"Your Majesty!" the officer's voice had gotten even lower.

I blinked hard, as did Itami as he had been used as a balancing post by Masterson, draping an arm across my shoulder to help stand after the intense pain he had just endured: the man now shirtless.

"Y-yes! U-understood!" the police officer stuttered, phone going down after he was delivered the words from the man who had called this Palace home.

I smacked my lips and shook my head as Masterson had been a bit loony given the injection he was given by the medic, the personnel redirecting toward the crowd and the injured out in front of the booth.

"Hey, was that-…?" Itami had been a loss for words.

"It was." the other humbled officer had answered.

"Civilians must have top priority."

We both looked at the man who had initially delivered our messages: the blonde Texan who, in my experience, perhaps wasn't the best person to try and get the doors of royalty open for the public.

"The hell did you do Cam?"

His answer was silence as the riot police buses had started rolling in behind us, the large creaking of wooden doors opening and the sudden shift of a running crowd inwards to the palace up on the hill above us.

No sooner had the parking lot had cleared in front of this side of the palace had those blue started rolling in side by side, the Police sergeant having basically fallen out and running toward us and the police chief on site.

Hadn't even noticed that that man was one of the police officers we were talking with.

The officers had bore salute as us soldiers stood aside.

"The administrative district has been largely occupied, but we'll defend this gate to the death. Reinforcements will be here shortly."

"We have a read on the main enemy force?" Itami had asked with urgency.

"They're coming now." Was the solemn nod.

Masterson had dropped from my carry of him and stood on his own, we knew what to do know that the civilians had a safe point they were still funneling through. Must've been in the thousands at this point.

I had habitually extended a hand to Itami, the man taking it without word and shaking hard. "You saved a lot of lives today with this idea. We're heading out. I imagine we'll be mentioning each other in the post-action reports?"

"You an officer?" he asked.

The police officers finally had been clued in to what we were.

"2nd Lieutenant Emerson. Army Rangers. Call the USFJ if you need me, me and my man here are heading back out."

" ** _What?!_** " All of them had seemed to yell. Either at who I was or what me and Masterson had wordlessly agreed to do.

"We have a soldier out there and we're gonna go recover him. Sir," I turned to the riot officer, "If you have a kit to spare, ammo and some MP5s, me and my sergeant will take it and head out and provide forward recon as well.

"Itami, you good with staying here and coordinating the JSDF response?"

He couldn't stop me and he knew. It was a mark of a soldier to never leave another behind, and even if he wasn't part of a "traditional" military, he knew the code. He nodded fiercely, his look alone to the riot officer persuading him otherwise.

We were Americans above all of their rank after all.

Our hand hold stopped as the riot police officer barked into his radio to allocate two kits for me and Masterton.

"Take care of these people, I'll see if I can't pick up a few things for you." I asked, ordered, and then winked.

"See you on the other side." He had departed with those words and a smile, taking off with the two remaining police officers into the palace, corralling the last of the civilians in as the riot police spread out into formation.

Masterson and I had been dragged along with the riot officer as a pair had carried two kits out: tactical police vests already decked with nine mil ammo and buckshot. Heavy stuff, all things considering as the men had personally threw them over our heads and buckled it for us, an MP5 in my hand as an Ithaca 37 was given to Masterson and pumped judiciously.

After telling us the radio frequency of the Japanese police net we hadn't spent much time in that staging area for the riot police, didn't want them to protest as we went down the way we came.

"You okay Ell-Tee?" Cam had perhaps underestimated who he was to be saying that, given the fact there was still a gap in his shoulder by a quick and shoddy removal job. We ran down the empty street as we saw the blockade set up by the phalanx formation further down, not moving, even as we saw eye to eye.

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _n._

 _1\. A popular slogan... It was used by people who believed that the United States was destined — by God, some said — to expand..._

 _The American Heritage® New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, Third Edition_

* * *

No.

2nd Lieutenant Emerson was not okay. But combat has a way of stripping people's minds down to bare bones and leaving only the processes that necessitated survival. His only thoughts in that last hour or so since he had been awakened rather rudely and killed a dragon had been just as exciting, and just as barebones on his psyche as the realization that he had, and would probably continue, to kill people had persisted above in his mind.

He had been easy to catch in his head that it was very easy to write these people as not human though, even if they blatantly were. "Otherizing" is what boot camp had told him: this mental technique, practiced in the late twentieth and early twenty first century. It was what had allowed American to run train in the Middle East, Russia to invade the caucuses, and led South Korea to obliterate the entire North Korean population.

A horrible thing that dehumanized soldiers and made them face the bloodshed very easily.

It was what Kay was doing now in his head, in the here and now.

"I'm fine, Cam. Worried about O'Neal… What ammo you got for that Thumper?"

Cam had taken a knee in the alley as the two men leaned out of the alleyway habitually, MP5 pointed down range as the sergeant got the M79 grenade launcher from his back and hinged it in half, looking at the round. Only then did Emerson realize the Type 64 DMR that had been slung to his back was there as well.

He would have to thank the generosity of the Japanese police force later.

"Tear gas."

"Crowd control. Right."

"The only thing they got on us is numbers, sir." Cam had advised, bringing the shotgun he was provided up again. The two men had given a good shake to their kits and how mismatched they were beneath t-shirts, jeans, and in Cam's case, shorts. Felt like as best a combat load as they were going to get.

"Hmph. We'll secure more ammo OSP. Where'd you last see Tracey?"

"Heart of Ginza sir. If that riot officer's intel was right we got an entire enemy division still down there fucking shit up."

"Yeah? Well, so will we. Gas masks on."

"Hell or highwater?" Cam's voice had been muffled as the two men had put on the police gas masks. To those that could've seen, it had looked of skulls, the blackened lenses like eyes to the soul of nothingness itself.

"I choose Hell. Five meter spread; you take right lane I'll take left. We do that for each block, reconvene at each corner. Got it? Just like Heat." The orders fell out like an old song.

"Roger." The mag in the Type 64 had gone out as the bolt was pulled back by Kay, chamber checked and mag put back in before a hearty pull of the bolt. Cross training with the JSDF had left little mysteries in the operation of this weapon, the zeroing of the sight good enough for the fight that would follow.

"Pop off a grenade behind them, we're oscar mike."

The commencement of hostilities in their favor was a welcome thing in men finally able to do their art, the two soldiers having ran out to in front of the street, the bloop of Cam's grenade launcher launching a cylindrical object toward them, behind them in their ranks, and then popping brilliantly in concussive and disorienting smoke and force.

It was cause of concern for all the men behind the twenty legionnaires who had taken to the phalanx formation, their spears out and ready for a charge, but not to the twenty legionnaires themselves as they had laughed to themselves:

Only two men?

Wizards more like it as those upfront, peering through their square shields, had saw the black and silver instruments they held up spout of fire. How puny, the flashes that came from the tips of their odd looking weapons.

Odder still was when one man had collapsed despite nothing seeming to have happened, his shield having bucked against him, punctured with little holes, as he had found it hard to breath as his lungs were sucking in.

Twelve gauge buck tended to do that.

Nothing to say of the constant bangs of battle rifle fire that had rained from the weapon that Kay wielded, the gap quickly closing between the two forces half way before the two soldiers had taken a knee and stood their ground as the phalanx kept coming on.

"Tango down! Reloading!" Cam's screaming had been about five downed men late, the man furiously pumping his Ithaca and reloading as Emerson picked up the slack, the secondary sights of the gun easily leveling with head level: each burst of his causing a shield and spear to collapse with the person he gunned down the literal barrel full of Roman fish.

Seven-six-two full metal jacket versus wood and armor of the likes that might've been a practical applicate of combat gear a dozen centuries in the past was certainly something that was in the Rangers' favor.

Maybe against eighty men, surely. Several thousand? Perhaps.

The Romans were trained for this kind of bloody morass however, and they kept up the rush until they were entirely cut off from their backline due to the tear gas cloud, the last of the legionnaires staggering forward, unaware that what was dragging him down to the earth was death by buckshot.

His spear had dropped, and Cam had taken no delay to step up and kick his shield in, putting the man to the floor as Kay ran up and put a bullet into the man's head on the ground.

The ornate, silver brain bucket the man had was now only that as the empty mags were dropped the concrete and reloaded swiftly, both men peering into the tear gas clouded and, on their own accord, popping the heads off Legionnaires, ogres, and otherworldly beast as they came stumbling out, choking on spit and smoke.

Everything to their twelve o'clock was hostile, and that was a simple story of how the blackest and whitest Rules of Engagement had deemed their actions correct.

Next street over the main enemy force had been rolling toward the Imperial Palace, that much had been heard, but all that meant was that the worst was behind them and probably wouldn't look back as the JSDF came in a roar of gunfire echoing through Tokyo.

"Popped a hog!" The squealing of a giant, combat loaded out anthropomorphic pig falling to the ground had backed up Cam's claim as Kay kept silent about the people he was putting down, his mouth a frown and nose flared as gun powder filled the air, his rifle snapping back and forth men who did not know what was happening and were shortly thereafter, dead.

The men who had saw the black skinned, skull wearing man that had stood there and pointed at compatriots who were quickly dead had enough senses to run from whoever that man was and his strange device that flashed every time a man died: like the last light of men's souls being absorbed in their mind.

"Cam! They speaking Korean or something?!" Kay had yelled as his barrel started smoking red, activity of the cloud settling down as men had ran away. Every headshot of his had been on the dot, the ping of metal not unlike one of a fleshy bell.

"Fucked if I know sir!"

The MP5 had come out with that answer, Cam topping off his shotgun before the one hand signal had made them push forward, their gasmasks fully sealed as the white of the tear gas enveloped both them and the street.

To the Legionnaires who came here representing their empire, on behalf of an emperor of their own, the divine will of the highest power, there was a lot to not be able to comprehend between the glass towers around them and the behemoth structures that made up this city in a foreign land.

Further a surprise had been the amount of people they had found, but were easily cut down.

It was a common fact that all men knew how to fight, so when only a handful did, the Legion, the thousands strong army meant to claim this world that lay on top of, in equivalence to this world, Golgotha, they had thought they found a weak world with weak people, ripe for the taking.

They did not think that outright now.

Not when that mysterious summoned choking cloud to this division had appeared at the behest of only two men.

Not when that cloud seemed the flash with light as men screamed within, losing their lives as those two black figures disappeared into the white mass.

Not when those two men on their left flank had walked out as if nothing had happened, barely twenty feet in front of the rear echelon line, and took it as nothing.

Perhaps not all men need not fight, when the strength of only two, equaled twenty and then scores more.

Kay and Cam stepped out of the cloud about, between each other, a mag and a tube full of buckshot expended. If, for any reason, the hundred or so Romans and their monsters had tried to charge them now, it would've ended badly for the two Rangers, but they were absolutely petrified.

More so because of the black man, rather than the Texan who had ogre blood on his knuckles, the two quickly reloading their instruments.

"I think I killed Shrek back there, sir." Cam had said with a little humor as he criked his neck, gloating in the superiority they had in the situation as those Romans had looked at them. It gave him time to idly reload the tear gas launcher for the next street.

"Serves him right." Kay had simply responded, eyes glancing over the catapults that had not been firing because of them, the men not moving, the enemy not killing more. He smirked behind that black mask.

One man, in the infinite wisdom of thinking he would be the chosen one, had drawn his sword, but before he had gotten the sword ready from the maneuver the blade was dropped just as he was: a snappy shot from Kay putting a hole in his head and his body on the ground to little fanfare.

The only fanfare that would come next would be of the positive points of modern firearm manufacturing and of the rigidness of two men, pushing a swath through fighters several centuries and warrior cultures behind them.

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _"-vitality is their God, and prosperity their dogma"_

 _The newspaper El Siglo XIX wrote on January 24th, 1845 regarding America's self proclaimed manifest destiny._

* * *

The bridge that we had taken cover below earlier had now been my sniper vantage point, the DMR I was given more than enough to overlook the gate's staging point from a good distance away as Cam had gotten off and did SAR for Tracey, leaving me with a radio and more than enough mags for the staging area in front of that giant stone entry way that these Romans had come through to cower.

It was way too easy for me to sight them up and put rounds down range my body in prone against this metro's track.

Like marksman training, so I'm told.

I wasn't a sniper, or a marksman, but there was a certain threshold I had to maintain as part of the 75th. To say I was a good shot had been good enough, given the right conditions and a gracious vantage point.

All of which was afforded to me today, as well as air cover from the GSDF.

They had dealt with the dragons overhead, their bodies falling to the Earth in a bloody and meaty spray with such impact their guts had splattered.

I figured about an hour and a half in I wasn't dreaming this whole thing up: that yes, I was indeed shooting Romans, or, at least, people who fought and carried themselves like Romans with a few monsters in tow like some medieval kingdom.

They simply did not know how to deal with me after I had dispersed their archers, the Cobras overhead further taking their awe as it left me to shoot out their throats.

Somewhere along the way I had ended up the most forward element of any armed resistance against these hostiles. We didn't even have a name for them, so they were called simply hostiles, as such my radio had been buzzing back and forth, leaving me little actual time to settle my breath and shoot with any sort of accuracy as time went on. There was still a considerable enemy force behind me, but that was being chipped away as I hope the JSDF had been able to do.

I mean, me and another Ranger had been able to collapse an entire flank and a catapult clearing with little done to us but burned hands.

"This is Godfather to all responding allied contacts. I repeat, this is call sign Godfather Actual to all available American military personnel. Over."

I had put the radio to my face as I heard the name of the Yokota base commander implied he was really only addressing three men in particular. No other USFJ ground personnel had been in Ginza today save us according to the log.

First time I had heard the commander's voice all day.

"This is 2nd Lieutenant Emerson, five by five Godfather, over." I had shifted my shoulder right to look at a man trying to go for a bow and arrow left on the street by one of my kills. A shot to his back had sent him to join the Archer.

Colonel Andrade was an odd man, Air Force gentleman from the dying days of the Cold War, Base Commander now of Yokota. He was alright, perhaps a little too fatherly at times, too human, but he worked out in a quiet world.

"Godfather Actual here, Emerson you will assume call sign Hitman-Actual for the duration of today. How copy? Over." His voice was what I needed: a voice of control and order.

"Hitman Actual here, copy that. Over." I answered.

Another shift and another pig had lost a tusk, missed the head, but the animal got the point as it went back into cover in an alley way.

"Godfather Actual, the JSDF personnel on the ground in the Palace says you and one of your team leaders are out there? Can you confirm?" the commander asked.

"Affirmative. Clarification: There is another Hitman element: a Corporal Tracey O'Neal, as of this moment we have not been able to locate him. Over."

There was a pause of radio silence. "Godfather Actual. Copy. Please confirm status." Andrade brushed it off for now, couldn't afford it.

"Hitman Actual. Well, Godfather," I had pointed the scope in the direction of another grey skinned ogre, trying to drag the still living from the streets. I hadn't had any of that as I double tapped two rounds. Big boys needed more than one. "Hitman-Actual is currently two blocks south of enemy staging point and is currently providing forward recon and contact suppression while Sergeant Masterson provides SAR for O'Neal. How copy? Over."

"Godfather copies all Hitman. We are currently deploying Marines from Yokota and the 7th MEU to your position. Ground elements are fifty mikes out. Aerial insertion should be within the next five. Over."

The 7th MEU? Colonel Pierce's unit. It must've been really bad.

"Roger that Godfather, Hitman-Actual out."

I had been providing points for the Japanese Cobras above to strafe, knowing explosives were out of the question. Hell, the chain guns were enough give the gore on the street.

"Cam, you read?"

A blowing sound of buckshot later and the radio had been host to his voice again as I changed frequencies.

 _"Loud and-!"_ The squealing of another pig followed by another boom. Acoustics sounded like he was inside a building. "Loud and clear, Kay!"

"Got any trace of Tracey yet?"

"No sir!"

"Well Andrade just radioed in. Says we've got Marines inbound from the 7th and Yokota. How copy?"

Masterson really didn't care for radio formalities in a world beyond formalities. "Japanese government allowing the deployment of foreign troops?" another burst of gunfire had punctuated his radio message.

"Don't think they got a choice Cam, Itami seemed to have been directing the GSDF out at the front... Mark your position with a flare and I'll see about tasking a Marine squad to you. Out."

I had wondered why those ground forces hadn't already beaten back the enemy, but the hectic radio chatter had been because the victors had been bogged down by hostile bodies piling up on the street.

Oh yeah, a massacre had been happening to my back.

That being said… I had taken a flare and thrown it behind me on the bridge, highlighting my position so a trigger happy would be JSDF responder wouldn't take my head off, barking the notification into the radio.

The Cobras up top had been so very aware of my position, given my constant radio chatter with them.

Between me and them, we had cut down the enemy like nothing else.

I had heard the stories of the wars gone by: Korea's Reunification, the Gulf War, and Vietnam, of how we had killed so many people with little thought. I hadn't believed the loss of life, but looking before this all, history was as validated as ever.

I was made a believer, despite myself. Every soldier had been one that had wanted peace, fighting for it.

What were we trained for though?

The sound of mass movement beneath me had been worrying, and I had leaned over and looked upside down: just soon enough to see giant mallets ram into the supports of the bridge I was on, shaking the bridge desperately as I shoved myself back before I had fallen off.

"Jesus Christ!"

They had gotten right under me, and I wasn't in any position to do anything as the shaking got violent. The pigs had one hell of an arm… or legs, whatever they were, and in little time at all I had more than enough reason to be running across it as parts of it started to crumble beneath my feet.

Not that I could outrun the collapse of infrastructure, my run across quickly becoming a slide down as electricity cackled from detached power cables and the pigs that had been hammering the supports gave their lives as to get rid of me: crushed by concrete.

The bridge had gone down in pieces, whole pieces, but still enough for me to ride on as it hit the dirt a few dozen feet below, my back worse for wear as it took the brunt, my body rolling to the railing as the entire piece I was on slanted on ground level.

No sooner than I had dust in my mouth I had remembered where I was and who was in front of me… also of who was behind me.

Enemy force was retreating backward, enemy survivors very aggravated of me at my front.

Radio was cackling having reported the bridge collapse, but I didn't even have any time to respond as I brought my rifle up as I lay on my back, propped against twisted metal and railing as the Romans saw who survived: only me.

They ran toward me with such thundering yells it steeled my heart for me.

From the shadow of the bridge emerged one of the smarter dragons: scales telling the story of an elder, hardened, one that acted without a rider that slowly crawled its way toward me from the cover. One smart dragon to have hidden from me the entire time.

The size of at least half the street, its steps had been as loud as my heartbeats as it came toward me, it the attention of my rifle as I squeezed off bursts to no effect.

So very closer it crawled, hot breath becoming very noted to my senses as I realized that instead of being charred: this dragon had wanted to eat me. Didn't even try to run as I emptied my gun, on my back, ready to die while going out fighting.

The bloody mess that had become of that dragon's head had almost made me puke, not because of the gore; but because of my own dead anticipations of finality.

USMC Black Hawks and accompanying American Cobra attack helicopters blew past overhead: the source of the sudden decapitation of that gray dragon being a well aimed AT4 from one of the Black Hawk passengers.

Two had detached from that wing like formation and found me, putting themselves and slinging men by rope on either side of the collapsed bridge and me. Furthermore another had split off and gone to right in front of that gate, every single helicopter up there having miniguns blazing as ribbons were made of those in uniform.

Black birds of prey meant for wars that never happened, now finally having a chance to operate in anger against an enemy that could not touch them:

Wooden contraptions had gone to splinters, war elephants brought down to melt to the gray concrete, everything the size of a foot mobile not registering as a friendly gone to dust.

These Marines had come angry and yelling, guns out and rifles up as the hostiles found themselves with nowhere to run under the fire of the angriest men of the US Military.

No sooner than I had registered who had been hitting a ground had a man in full kit hauled me to my feet and asked of my condition. Really didn't know what to say but to give him an affirmative, even with how I bled and who had bled on me in those last one and a half hours.

"How many motherfuckers you pop lieutenant?" was the second question out of the Marine's mouth. I had almost misheard him, but then again, this was a corps that was war starved for the greater part of a decade at least.

Glint of the security cameras had still survived despite it all, on every street corner and store front.

"You can check my highlight reel later soldier." I had said.

Maybe not even forty meters away there had been active combatants, and, if that combatant had any sort of ranged power projection, we would've all been scrambling for cover on this mean, flat street.

But not, there was nothing to be had as the whir of M16s started cutting down those remaining.

Several of the desert drabbed marines had taken to on top of the dragon that one of their own had just killed and used it as a firing position, even as its body continued to breath on its own in dying moments.

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _"If it be the design of Providence to extirpate these_ _ **Savages**_ _in order to make room for cultivators of the Earth, it seems not improbable that rum may be the appointed means." -_

 _Benjamin Franklin, from his autobiography, 1750s._

* * *

It never ceased the amaze me that I had to keep reminding myself that this was my first day of combat, that my years of training had all culminated in having to cut down fairy tale men in Japan of all places.

But alas, it was, and a part of my head was laughing at me as the other part of it told it to shut up given the civilian casualties I had to walk over.

Full blown catastrophe that, given if this was done by any other nation on Earth, war would've been declared immediately.

But the thing was, as it was chopping up to be, that these animals, all of them, had not been from Earth.

Today was the day of my first kill, and I'd never forget that it had been a dragon rider. It was a justifiable kill.

Mom always told me to never hurt anyone if I could help it.

Well, I had always said I always could help, just a matter of me dying so the enemy wouldn't. I figured she wouldn't mind it if I was the one living instead of these very, very backward fucks.

Americans had gotten here first, the Japanese having to have shoved their way to intermingle as prisoners were collected and dragged out from occupied buildings, the sound of gunfire as police and military from two nations had gone door to door still evident as I had made my way through the damp convention center: courtesy of a fire alarm pulled by one of my Rangers.

That stone monstrosity that we had been calling a gate so readily had shown up where we needed it to be really, the dead center of the intersection barricaded by barbed wire and pointed at by tanks and machine gun teams. The innards of it had been glowing a black hole blue and black, and everyone didn't need the orders of both the JSDF and the American military to not go from where the attackers came, even if we wanted to do the same to whoever was on the other side of this gate.

Wounds needed to be licked, and the drizzle above had started washing away the blood from the streets into Tokyo's sewers as fighting continued all around us.

Fact remained that Ginza had turned Tokyo into a battlefield, and even then there had been a sighting of a dragon that was able to fly out of Tokyo. Last I heard it was being chased down by Japanese F-15s down toward Okinawa.

Would've liked to see any cover up operation happen, given the death toll today.

Almost all civilian on our side I imagined.

Radio had been buzzing off the chart as a Marine had gotten my Japanese kit off me and put on good ole American armor again. If I was the man who had been one of the first American troops on the ground during this thing, the media that was showing up like the plague had better seen me in my kit.

The sound of a Japanese Type 10 tank firing its main gun into a building had paused us all for a second before me and my procession of attached Marines had gone to where Cam had found Tracey: a bathroom on the fourth floor of the convention center where Itami had so wanted to go today.

Apparently Tracey and his family wanted the same.

" ** _What the fuck_** do you mean Tracey wanted to meet up with his family here today?!" I had yelled at Masterson, maybe a little unfairly as he blocked me off from the bathroom, only the corpsman able to go in.

"Me and you both didn't know, sir. Apparently he didn't want us to know or something."

"And he still doesn't?!" Masterson had still stood like a post, keeping me out even as I pushed.

Itami would perhaps have another chance to attend one of these conventions, the look in Masterson's blue eyes had told me someone inside that bathroom would not.

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _"_ "This unfortunate race, whom we had been taking so much pains to save and to civilize, have by ** _their unexpected desertion and ferocious barbarities justified extermination_** and now await our decision on their fate." -

United States President Thomas Jefferson, in response to the Native Indian problem, December 29, 1813


	2. 0-2: The Right Man - Two Armies

**_Ending of Intro Section_**

 ** _Intro Section 0-2_**

* * *

 _"I'm so proud of you, my son!"_

That was the gist of my mother's words, all the praise, all the tears of joy and the cries of relief delivered over the phone as I had laid my tired head against the wall next to this phone booth had been fairly needed by me. To hear the voices of those I loved.

Certainly had new meaning to me after I found out what happened to my Corporal O'Neal.

"Hey, Mom, I'll call back soon, alright? I have a feeling I'll be really busy in these next few weeks."

"Alright… I love you, my baby boy."

* * *

 ** _Four days since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _Japan – Yokota Air Base_**

* * *

It wasn't the first time I had been at risk to tell my boring life story during those lastfew days, not when a few Marines had asked what kind of person had been able to hold off an entire army with only a Japanese DMR and an MP5, nor when the media hounds had tried to yell questions to me as me and Masterson were shuttled over to the Ministry of Defense to accept commendations from the Japanese government.

Itami had been there too, a commission sending him from a 2nd Lieutenant to a First.

He definitely deserved the title: Hero of Ginza, commendations that went above and beyond the call of duty for saving thousands of people.

Thing was that me and Masterson received the same when we had done something far more violent, and far more selfish: only trying to find one man of ours instead of the broad thousands that had been scrambling from this "opposing force".

We gave each other a knowing glance, knowing of the pain and headache to come further.

What had been my greatest source of mental pain was that I had to accept Tracey's medal for him, seeing as he was currently being held in the Navy's mental ward.

His wife and two daughters had been cut to pieces by pigs and a Legionnaire.

The perpetrators hadn't fared much better given what had happened to them with Tracey's bare hands. The Marine corpsman that had been allowed to first contact him had very much puked, the man having to push me out of the way as he spilled his guts to the floor.

Tracey was a good man, quiet, having known him the better part of my eight month deployment here as part of Yokota's new trial of having the 75th Ranger Regiment stationed here indefinitely along with some Marines.

I had to go through an interview to be here, and here I was being interviewed again by the same people. First time was to just gauge if I was fit to fit into Japanese society as part of United States Forces Japan.

This time had been regarding an oral debrief of what we had taken to calling the "Ginza Incident".

"Just for the vocal record, lieutenant, please state your name, rank, date of birth, and current assignment."

I looked into the camera behind the two way glass: the option for it having to be one way turned off at the moment. Room was a plain drab otherwise, not too friendly, but then again if you were brought here it wasn't in the name of comfort.

"My name is Kristian Emerson, 2nd lieutenant. Born in the state of New York on March 20th, 2003. My current deployment to Yokota AFB, Tokyo with the 75th Ranger Regiment and the new Fourth Ranger Battalion, Bravo Company."

"So that would make you twenty five years old, born the day Operation Iraqi Freedom started, and a part of Army Special Operations Command."

"That would be correct."

A man like me had the time, and the body, to get through OCS, Ranger selection and training just fine. I was under command of SOCOM, and me and my Rangers had been the only special forces on the ground that day.

Ever since the destruction of ISIS, the invasion of Iran, and the fall of the last Cold War remnant: North Korea, the world had been a, when compared to the last fifty years, a quiet place in terms of official conflict. These were the days after the final wars, the "Forever War", as was the nickname of that giant conflict I had avoided going into the Middle East to fight.

It had meant there was a lot of thumb twiddling in the militaries across the world, and quite frankly a lot of sitting on ass given the circumstances. I always thought it would've been a great time to join the Army and build myself in character and position. Also because I did love my country enough to die for it. Thought that was only right.

I wasn't planning on becoming a career soldier. God no, but I had meant to jump off my stint as a Ranger into the halls of public office… I had even been taking political science classes online during my tenure here in Japan. I always thought volunteering for such an assignment would be good for my record, and all was really going well until four days ago when I had been put in the position where I had to assume my role in the fullest.

Instead of a man of branches, I had been the man of arrows forever now, the news reports having very clearly labeled me as who I was: a 2nd Lieutenant Kristian Emerson from New York City, who, with great prejudice, held down an entire street just two blocks down from the Gate allowing Itami to organize saving civilians and the JSDF counter attack.

I mean, it's not like I was a man who couldn't hurt a fly, but Liveleak and YouTube had been on fire with amateur and security footage of Itami, Masterson, and me that day had been abound.

With that, the entire world knew I could very much hurt a fly… More like a dragon.

The fact that a few odd comments had been shipping me and Masterson together was an odd thing, but given our synergy during our attack on the opposing force's left flank, it was, just barely, understandable.

"So, let's get to the point, Lieutenant Emerson…" the 'interrogator' had been a man from the MPs: Mitch something something, never really found out his last name. "What were you doing in Tokyo the day of the Ginza Incident?"

Same answer as always, I having brought my arms to the table. "I was accompanying Sergeant Cameron Masterson and Corporal Tracey O'Neal to the Ginza district to attend some comic book convention."

"They're referred to as doujinshi, lieutenant. Which leads me to believe you weren't all that interested in the convention."

"Doujinshi…" Tried the word I remembered on Itami's tongue. I had actually taken some stuff on his behalf from the convention during the cleanup, the entire exhibition wrecked with bodies and booths. Tried to give it to him before the ceremony, but the brass had shuffled us apart faster than we could've reacted. "And yeah, you assume correctly. I simply wanted to go out on the town and get some fresh air and sun. I mean… was a nice day, wouldn't you agree?"

"Up to twelve noon, yeah. Past that, well, I think you more than anyone know what happened the rest of the day."

"Do you want me to continue?"

"Of course, lieutenant." Mitch hadn't been mean or prodding, but this was for the camera; the record.

"Well, Tracey and Cam went off on their own at around eleven hundred and after I had gotten some lunch at a local french fry joint, I simply awaited in front of a convenience store about a block down from where the Gate-"

"We're referring to the Gate as simply the Alpha Point." Who 'we' had been was the United States Military and its government. I was told, but Gate was so much easier to remember given the fact it was a giant fucking gate.

"Ah. Uhm, well, I sat myself down on a bench and dozed off a block south of Alpha Point. When I had awoken by Sergeant Masterson's hand it was Zero Hour for the opposing force."

Mitch had nodded, adding an audible yes just for the video. He was an old vet of the base, fifty years old at this point, having been here with the Air Force for maybe thirty. He as a white man had been much more Japanese then I ever could have been. Not out of lack of patriotism of course, but when the man had lived thirty years outside of his home country, it tends to change a person's pervasions.

"When Zero Hour kicked off the opposing force had started a mass panic amongst the civilian populace and Cam had dragged me into the convenience store's foyer."

"That's when you engaged a D-Specimen with your bare hands, correct?" D had meant Dragon, but no US military official had wanted to say "dragon" in full seriousness in an official report. "The encounter you and Sergeant Masterson has been recorded from several angles and your dissertation regarding that encounter is not needed, however we would like to gather your opinion on what you felt regarding the D-Specimen."

"What I felt?" I looked at the scar in my right hand. It was a rather "biting the bone" cut, as the medic had told me, but the miracles of modern medicine and liberal stitching had closed up and made my hand whole again. "Well, upon first contact with a D-Specimen it had done away with my doubts that this was a prank, or some trick, gone wrong. I mean, me and Masterson both discovered that the D-Specimen was a living creature, and as such we had dealt with it accordingly given its hostilities."

"Along with the rider."

My tongue had felt electrified as Mitch had noted this. There was something I needed to say:

"My first kill."

The camera that had been able to be seen was dead on in front of me, but I had shied away from looking right at it and instead to the floor, my gaze otherwise focused to the man talking to me and how he had been leaning on the foldable chair.

"Do you know your particular D-Specimen was the most preserved to be captured?" Mitch got me away from the subject.

"Well given the fact that the GSDF Cobras had been using their chain guns against them, I don't doubt it."

"Yeah. Because it was your kill: a United States Military kill, we tried to take ownership of it, but the Japanese government said it could preserve it better. We handed it off to them."

I nodded in the acknowledgement.

"Were there any casualties inside that shop after me and Masterson left?" I asked. The way people had died that day: stabbed, arrowed, crushed by mallet, chomped apart. It was nothing less than barbaric… thought about the kid who saved me and Masterson's life with his impromptu flamethrower.

"That is yet to be determined, lieutenant. Japanese and American SWAT teams are still breaching and clearing the entire district of Ginza and as such final head count and casualty lists are yet to be determined… continue onward." he waved his hand dismissively at me.

"Well, after we dealt with that threat the road had cleared up enough for me and Cam to fully observe Alpha Point and determined it was a staging point for the enemy force."

"What is your relationship with Sergeant Cameron Masterson?" I chuckled at that word: relationship. A black man from the Bronx buds with a blonde hair, blue eye man from Houston. What're the odds that would've worked out a few decades prior?

"Cam and I are eight month strong friends at this point. As the leader of Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon, I took it upon myself to familiarize myself with my men throughout my deployment…" Mitch looked at me expectantly, wanting more. "Cam is lead of my First Squad, I like the man, enjoy the sound of his voice, and he's dependable as a friend and a squad lead."

Mitch gave a nod. "Continue."

"Anyway, having procured adequate protection in the form of the rider's sword and a freezer door, we were able to survive under stained ballistic fire in a tactical retreat."

"Why did you retreat?"

"Well quite frankly sir, it was a textbook retreat: fully warranted given the situation. Out…weaponed, outmanned, and we had to attend to the fact that civilians were dying left and right. We wanted to contact either the USFJ and Colonel Andrade, or the Tokyo police."

"What's your relationship with Colonel Andrade?"

"Well, Colonel Andrade, and I call him my friend because he lets me call him his pet name-"

"What's his pet name?"

I had carefully said it straight. "Sugar."

Mitch smiled. "Go on."

"…. Colonel Andrade holds meetings across the branches here at Yokota on a weekly basis. Past that I play cards with him and I know his family. He's got wonderful grandkids."

"Right. Continue."

"Well, we rounded the corner maybe three blocks down from Alpha Point to assist this one police officer that was being engaged. Cam went ahead and bashed the combatant into the waiting arms of a now 1st Lieutenant Itami Yoji."

"How much do you know 1st Lieutenant Itami?"

"As far as I can tell he thinks on his feet, maybe got his own personal priorities a bit slanted, but generally a very good man to have in the pinch as it was, and he deserves all the commendations he got yesterday."

"Do you not feel the same for your own commendations?"

"I personally speak for myself, regarding the awards given to me by the Ministry of Defense, and frankly: no. It don't feel right."

"Why?"

"Amount of contacts I smoked, respectfully."

"Really?"

I had sucked in air in a sniffle. "Well, maybe I'll fully appreciate it in time, but I certainly felt like I killed more people than I saved: Itami certainly saved more than he had dealt with."

"As far as I'm concerned you, Masterson, and O'Neal are heroes. Especially given O'Neal's action to pull the fire alarm and evacuate the building upon first contact."

"Yeah, well… O'Neal's not doing too well."

"We know, lieutenant, continue." Mitch licked his lips, his mouth dry and he himself not much less tired than me. The entire base had been at DEFCON 3 for the last few days.

"Itami had pretty much a perfect plan that we had not really thought of, admittedly, so we let him tell that plan to the police officer as the general order of the hour: and that was to divert all civilians into the Tokyo Imperial Palace for shelter."

"Why did you think that was perfect?"

"Given the combat tactics of the enemy, the Tokyo Palace was the natural place to hole up, for it was made in the same time period that the enemy was emulating that day and designed accordingly." I had lightly tapped my fist against the steel table, as if driving my point home: "It was a damn good way to think of it."

"Continue."

"Anyway, me and Itami sent the police officer and Cam off as we try to buy time for them. We saw a pair of horse scouts and wanted to deal with them as we saw civilians keep trying to vacate the area. We dealt with them, sent a message to the main enemy force, and then promptly made our way to the palace." I had taken a breath to see if Mitch had wanted anything else, but that hadn't been the case. "Anyway, we got to the palace on the back of a firetruck, got the grounds open to the public down from the Emperor himself, and as the first riot police arrived Itami had stayed behind to coordinate the civies as me and Cam acquired Japanese gear and went to the enemy's left flank. By that time Cam had gotten in touch with Colonel Andrade and so all we had left in our heads was to find Tracey."

"You and Sergeant Masterson certainly did a number on the enemy's left flank."

 _"Rangers lead the way."_ My motto had been my justification.

"According to video reports you guys totaled three platoons worth dead together, along with an artillery unit. You on your own after you split up did two more."

"Yeah… anyway, after we torched some of the catapults, Cam had volunteered to go off on his own for an SAR op and find Tracey while I took overwatch on the metro bridge two blocks down from Alpha Point."

"And from there on in you coordinated Japanese and American helicopter movements to coordinate aerial strikes while providing your own sniper fire."

"Correct."

"At around thirteen thirty hours the 7th MEU helicoptered in and saved my ass, relieving me of most of my duties that day."

"And then for the rest of the day after Casevacing Corporal O'Neal and his family you organized the American ground troop movements throughout Ginza, even as an Army officer across to the Marines of the 7th Marine Expeditionary Unit."

"With the intent of quarantine and securing the outbreak only to the district. Me and Cam were then relieved fully at zero dark thirty and handed the American operation off to Colonel Pierce. I've been on base save for official functions ever since."

And that was how August 6th, 2028 had gone for me.

Much like that day, the longest day of my life, I had been a part of history now as worlds seemingly had collided.

Camera had been switched off and Mitch had let out a dreary sigh, reaching a hand out and taking my shoulder, helping me out of my chair as he saw the dark circles beneath my eye, which, all things considered given my pigment, was a rather bad sign.

"All right, in a few hours we'll have you back in here for psychological and your personal observation on the enemy force. But get some chow and shut eye."

"You get my family someplace safe?"

"Yeah, they're at the IHG Army Hotel near West Point under supervision. Made a good call getting them out of the Bronx. Got some good ole God fearing folks thinking you helped deny the apocalypse or some shit."

"Alright, thanks, Mitch."

"I'll get you their contacts soon enough. Now get out of here lieutenant."

Right man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

* * *

"Yo! It's the motherfucking Reaper!" One of the Rangers had screamed in the mess hall as they stood up, their black watch cap beanies covering the hairs of them all. This had been Bravo Company, my company of little to no action in the last eight months.

Biggest action we had was stomping on firearm and milsim enthusiast at airsoft games occasionally. They told me men had bonded through war, but there was no war to be found.

Until today of course.

My men had been deployed to me about thirty mikes after the Marines touched ground. It was our first combat action and nearly all of them found kills, and those who had killed men held their titles high.

Highest were me and Masterson, who had been sitting on a throne of men, his squad displaying him as a king to me.

They were rather proud of their squad lead.

I raised my hands up just barely defensively as I smiled off the title.

"Jesus Khrist is fine for names for now troopers." My slight smile disappeared just shy of my men trampling over me in a moshpit.

"Attention!" They all had snapped like robots at the sound of my voice, Masterson falling on his ass as his throne came out from underneath him and stood at attention. The squad leader that had been ready was my Sergeant Bannon: twenty nine year old woman from Montana with steel in her eyes and freckles on pale skin. Female Ranger number two hundred one. The number had been shortly before the US Military stopped counting how many of our special forces and ground infantry had been females.

Her head had been constantly shaved, but the slight ghost of her brown hair had come back recently.

The men had formed their two squads in columns and rows, a good nineteen heads: squad leads up and front, Masterson down one man for reasons which the entire squad had been very knowing of at this point.

Bravo Company had really only been at two platoon strength, cut across four squads, I having command of two of them. But they were my men all the same and they did damn well during the Incident.

"It is the opinion of Hitman-Actual, as I am so called by Colonel Andrade now, that he would appreciate of his men would keep to calling "Jesus Khrist" or any form of "Jay-Kay". It is a simple request, as I have a lot on my mind right now, and I don't have the time to adjust to a new name. Do I have a yes sir?"

"Yes sir!" They all had affirmed. We had the mess hall to ourselves, the rest of the GIs on station here in Yokota had been out on foot patrol in downtown Tokyo and Ginza.

Japanese government had been finicky regarding the fact the US had deployed troops without full permission on Japanese territory, but that issue was forgotten enough to award three Americans medals…. That and a dozen Americans had died in the Incident. Three of them O'Neals.

No other nation in the international community sustained a loss: only American and Japanese blood had run through the streets on our side at the count of seven hundred and twelve civilians dead.

Initial reports had offered a casualty count on the opposing force side of sixty thousand men. A staggering number that some of the history buffs noted was the size of seven Roman legions.

Not only that: in the rear position had been politicians, dignitaries, children and wives.

They did not expect this resistance at all. They assumed the size of their army would deter confrontation.

They were dead wrong.

We had nabbed around four thousand prisoners according to initial reports, but the number was slowly rising.

I sucked in breath as I readied my next few words. "At ease, but still, listen to me soldiers."

Their forms had shifted down as they let out their own breaths, breaking formation and forming a school circle around me as I leaned on one of the mess's columns, the chefs in the back even tuning in.

"I know we're down a man, and I'm sure we're sending Tracey our regards, but if and when you are contacted by any media regarding me, Sergeant Masterson, or Corporal O'Neal, you will respond accordingly as by the SOP regarding… controversial cases."

"Well, shit, sir…" Private Harris, college boy out of Pennsylvania, jaw a bit misaligned due to a football practice gone rough one day. I had feared he had already spilled the beans. "You're a war hero, not a war criminal. Thought you'd like the fame given your dreams of becoming a politician."

I had coughed as I cleared my throat, Corporal Peters, a silent Jamaican, having tossed me a bottle of water.

"And I don't get bottle service Peters?" Private Black spited in the back row, short man from Boston who had a hell of an aim.

"You suck enough cock to keep hydrated." Peters answered back, his voice like stone despite the hilarity of the statement.

A slight ring of 'O'ssss' had rung throughout as Bannon simply shook her head, the quick quip subsiding as I took back a slurp.

"Well, future dreams or not, me and my family, both Masterson's and O'Neal's as well, would like it to blow over for the next few months. I don't want any fire to be added. As much as me and Masterson like hearing our name on BBC, the public doesn't know or will understand what happened to Tracey, especially this soon. Do you read me five by five Rangers?"

"Yes sir." This affirmative had a bit more subdued, but no less understood.

I had gone to the lunch line, but Peters and Private Nutt had dragged me down to a seat, Black giving me a massage on my back as Harris got my lunch for me.

"Now don't you go anywhere sir. I think Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon would fully enjoy servicing you during this precious down time." Masterson had said oh so mockingly, even as Nutt, a Californian who, in hushed moments, told the squads he had bought drugs from Colonel Andrade once to a tone we could not figure out if serious or not, had ran his hands down my fatigues down southward, I immediately bucking the man's upward off of me as the rest of the treatment continued. My favorite meal of T-bone steak, French fries, and scrambled eggs was provided.

"One time deal only lieutenant!" The chef had yelled at me.

"I'll give you great fucking head if you make this meal for me everyday chef!" The words had come out of my mouth, Nutt's hands still very much trying to get to third base on me. "And fuck off Nutt, if I wanted homoerotic I would've joined Force Recon."

"And giving Chef Ikari a blowjob ain't homoerotic?" Nutt seemed almost offended.

"At that point it's just business, Nutt. Not like Chef Ikari is Godfather's God son or anything." Bannon backed me up.

The men and women had all shared a laugh as the meal that was presented at my lap was quickly lapped up by me, Masterson going to my side and crossing his legs as Bannon took my other side.

"We all alright, Bravo?" Bannon had asked, her voice hoarse, the volume of an almost yell but the sound of a whisper. She wasn't one to smoke, but her throat acted like it.

Some of the troops had sobered, some of them had brushed it off, but the general consensus was that we were, all of us sitting down and enjoying a meal in the light of the situation.

The last of my luxury treatments had been the fact that a newspaper in Japanese had been slid to me as CNN was flicked on amidst a stream of commercials, the newspaper being unfurled as I had started chewing into some fries.

Masterson had poked the headline, the cover page having shown CCTV footage shots of me, Itami, and him rolling down the street, taking on swordsmen, and running and gunning. All of them rather heroic.

 _"Off-Duty SDF Official and American Army Soldiers Saves Citizens and Mount Counter-Attack in the Chaos of Ginza."_ Bannon had read off as she crossed her arms. If I didn't know any better she seemed sore that she didn't take up Masterson's offer of going out with us that day. She missed the action.

"Jesus Christ Cam, I'm pretty sure you got panties dropping across the world seeing as you went shirtless." I said, my eyes going back up to the TV as one of my men had taken the newspaper for himself.

Cam had tipped his head a bit bashfully. "Well I've been diligently rerunning the footage that's being released so far, and thankfully my battle boner is fully recognizable, so if I have just won the hearts and minds of Japanese women everywhere I am not going to complain."

"Motherfucker, whatch' you talking about? You and the Ell-Tee gay as hell." Harris had shouted across the table.

"Least I ain't on some Yakuza shitlist because I fuck god damn Idolmasters!" Masterson had shot back to a waiting Harris, who had not been at all ashamed at his monthly visits to a dance club which prided itself on its college level female idols.

"I came, I saw, I came again you S oh B." Harris yelled back, the thought of Veni, Vidi, Vici very prevalent in our minds in some way. We had been intent on calling the opposing force Romans unofficially, and even some of our red blooded Italians had come up short on any slurs we could've used. Believe it or not a few of the Marines had taken to calling them Hadjis, despite it all. The people that came from the other side had been brown indeed, but more of a Mediterranean sort at most.

Old habits die hard, amongst other things.

The ever wonderful CNN graphics had flashed to life as the commercials were over and a news alert had been ready for show, the reporter a stern tone, almost as if to enhance the seriousness of what was coming.

"Never thought that CNN would be broadcasting the Japanese Prime Minister's words to the American public back home." Black had muttered, almost even spited.

"Americans died and Americans responded, it's only right."

I had missed the first few sentences as I finished up my meal, but this broadcast was live and straight from the Japanese Senate, the Prime Minister delivering remarks on what the hell the JSDF was going to do.

We were all glued to the screen.

"-We don't know what lies beyond the gate, or what it is like. Everything about it is a mystery."

"No shit." Harris had grumbled.

Prime Minister Shigenori was as tired as any of us with his hawk like visage, but he had been on the Japanese government side of things, our own government had been waiting to see what they were gonna do.

"We apprehended many of the attackers in the previous incident, and, at present, they are no more than criminals who have broken the law, or, in other words, **_terrorists_**."

All of our blood had almost frozen as we heard that word.

"That's bullshit and he knows it! These are regular army combatants." Bannon had whisper-yelled, raspily.

I kept silent, but the dialogue between Masterson and his counterpart in Squad One had might as well been my own inner conflict.

"Might come down to whether we charge these Romans as war criminals or not under military or civil court. I mean, for fuck sake, I'm sure the matter of what ROE was presented to them will come up in the deliberations, whenever they happen."

I sighed. "Well, if they're charged as soldiers, they'll be charged in the same way we would: Acting on the facts as they were in the present, not in hindsight."

"Does that work for a group of people that do not know an ounce about civilized fighting?"

I grunted for silence at Bannon's question.

"Destroying the Gate will not solve the problem. We fear that whatever forces summoned this, would simply relocate or open another Gate somewhere in Japan or the world. Thus, we have decided to consider…"

The part we were waiting for, all of us leaning in.

"… the land beyond the Gate, the Special Region, a part of the territory of the State of Japan."

We all had sunk back into our seats, mouths agape.

Not ever since Ukraine had taken back its eastern portion and Crimea nearly two decades ago had the world seen an annexation of territory. For all intents and purposes, Japan had annexed an entire planet, it was assumed, on the other side of the Gate.

" ** _Article Nine_**." Peters' low voice had cut through us.

He referenced the Japanese Constitution:

"The Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes." I had rattled off the statement I had seared my head.

"Which means that Japan now has the ability to exert its sovereign control over whatever is beyond Alpha Point."

It was inevitable what was going to happen, the build up, the outrage, the way the Prime Minister had seemed to burn into the camera: For the first time ever since World War Two, Japan would, political work around or not, be invading a foreign land.

"-as well as to bring any forces there to the negotiation table, we have determined that it is necessary to go beyond the gate, even if it is dangerous. For the purpose of investigating the Special Region, apprehending the ringleader of the Ginza Incident, and securing compensation **_by force_** , the government of Japan will dispatch the Self-Defense Force to the other side of the Gate."

The commentators had started to chime in as the Prime Minister had finished his statement, the Defense Minister that had awarded me a commendation and a medal yesterday there and now outlining suspected force projection of the JSDF deployment, also of the upcoming use of forward recon scouts.

I had droned out the TV as well all took on the news. If the JSDF was going, by God's graces we were going too. If not for the Americans killed, but for our man who lost his mind because of what had happened. There was no denying it. Us and the US Marines had been first to fully secure the Gate. We had the **_right_** to go over there just as much as the Japanese.

"We're **_going to war_** motherfuckers!" Masterson had popped out of his seat, and hopped on top of the table. The cheering between the nineteen of us, perhaps even me included, was thunderous.

* * *

 ** _Six days since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _Japan - Yokota Air Base_**

* * *

The one thing that the American public had liked about President Anton Dirrell, and there was not many things to like about the Democratic President, was that he had known how to make it known that the United States of America wanted something, and they would do many things to achieve it.

All talk usually, but the fact that there was US Marines on the ground in front of the Gate right at this instance, as well as, between me and Masterson, the blood of hundreds on American's hands, the talk was backed up by the bite of the military on station in Japan.

 _"Our nation will spare no effort in aiding Japan's investigation beyond the gate. We have made arrangements to send the necessary personnel and funding to both the Japanese government and the United States Forces in Japan. Along with this, we are currently in the talks of creating a joint Japanese-American Task Force, aimed at helping the JSDF achieve its goals past the Gate. In short: We will send armed combat troops past the Gate in accordance with our plan of action regarding the government, or governments, beyond the Gate in order to claim reparations and diplomatic contact."_

The transcript of President Dirrel's statement was on the lounge chair that was part of the Ops briefing that Colonel Chigurh Baxa Andrade had just come back from. An older man in the latter half of his hundred years, he had used to be a full blown combat pilot, but he had put his F-15E down in exchange for a comfortable life with his family here in Japan while heading Yokota AFB, which had slowly been becoming more than just an Air Force Base, given the amount of Marines and Rangers that were taking their assignments here.

It made him tired, but he had kept a good sense of enthusiasm, even throughout the last few days to keep the base running smoothly.

"Long story short, lieutenant, Colonel Pierce and Major Sevson are slated to head the entire 7th MEU into the breach with the JSDF force. That being said, even then, American forces will be dwarfed by the Japanese on the other side."

"So this is a Marine's deployment?" Kay asked, perhaps a little sad as he puffed on his E-Cigar behind his aviators. Andrade shook his head.

"Not so fast lieutenant. Your Rangers, your platoon specifically, has been requested to be attached to the 7th MEU on the request of, well, me, the Commandant, and the brass up in Misawa. 7th MEU and Bravo's 2nd Platoon are the only US Military personnel to have engaged with the opposing forces in any capacity, and High Comm wants to keep it like that for the meanwhile broadly."

Kay had pushed himself off of the air control tower's railing, where Andrade and him usually hung out, the gentle summer breeze cooling whatever hot temper they had.

"Going in with the 7th?... Are we going in under the same pretenses as the JSDF?"

"In at least three months, yeah. Officially. But the Brass is expecting your platoon and the 7th to train for these next few weeks for a textbook invasion scenario, because to us, whatever is on the other side of Alpha Point, Japanese or not, is a foreign land. We'll be developing ROE and SOPs accordingly."

"Is all of this on the down low?" Kay said after a blow.

Andrade waited for the cloud to dissipate into the air.

"Yeah."

* * *

 ** _One month since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _Japan - Hilton Tokyo_**

* * *

To say that the JSDF and the USFJ had set me and 1st Lieutenant Itami up on a date was stretching it, but we were forcefully given R&R time and the top loft of the American hotel in Japan. Apparently High Command had wanted us to get together for some quality bonding time, and or the eventuality that we were have to work together again eventually.

He had not been happy about much of anything at all.

"I mean, it's bad enough that the Summer Exhibit was closed down, but now I might even miss the Winter one?!" He had put his back on the bed as I had sat on the couch flipping through any channels that did not show news, landing on an international sports channel that had been showing off the 2028 Olympics in Aleppo.

These last few weeks I had been so shut off from the outside world I had forgotten the Olympics in Syria were in full swing.

"In speaking of that," I had gotten a backpack from underneath the couch. "Thought you might've liked this haul for you."

Itami in his new Japanese issue uniform, a mossy green affair that harkened back to some forest coloration had immediately snapped back up as I tossed the bag to him, the man immediately opening it up and having his mood automatically reversed.

"Oh my god! Is this the Evangelion NEXT volume and- Wait?! It can't be! These figu-"

I had stopped him before he had totally lost it on me. "Hey, look, I ain't an Otaku or something, I just started putting shit into my bag and hoped you would've liked something in there."

I was more of a man of videogames and basketball as opposed to Japanese cartoons and illustration. Not that Itami would've cared as he had tackled me and grabbed my back in an embrace, jumping up and down like a child as I struggled to get him off me.

Fucking Christ. Just because I wasn't particular about what team I swung for didn't mean I needed this man mooching me because of a favor.

I hauled the man over my back, just short of a suplex to get him on the couch with me. I had gotten a bunch of my post-action reports on the table, and I really wanted to trade notes, but with the look in his eyes as he had started putting figures of Shinji Ikari and his robot mother on the table on top of my documents, I doubted he would've paid any attention tonight to them.

"Seriously, Emerson, thanks."

"Kay is fine, Itami."

"Then Yoji is fine." As Americanized as Japan had become, there was such a thing as honorifics, not that Itami was one to observe them. "How was that one man… Tracey? Is he doing alright?"

I had soured my face inadvertently, taking a sip back of the beer I had gotten for myself. "No. He's catatonic, last I checked. We shipped him back to America and he's pretty much ruined as a man. God damn shame."

The day of my first kill was the day of my first casualty.

Itami had nodded as he had started putting my documents aside as he spread out his manga, his face a frown too, if not knowing.

"My mother is in a mental treatment center too, you know."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh yeah? Terribly sorry."

"Don't worry about it, Kay, nothing you could've done, but I understand your loss. Truly."

"Do you?" I grated my teeth as some of the alcohol spoke for me, the reality of losing a man to war.

"My mother killed my father and… well, a few years after that she tried to kill herself by immolation, right in front of my own eyes."

"There are many ways which you can lose people, isn't there?"

"Yeah… hell of a way to start the evening. Sorry."

"Don't worry." Itami smiled at me. He picking up a beer and raising it to the level of my own. The glasses touched as we bit back a sip.

"You feeling anything in particular regarding the upcoming deployment?"

"Asides from the fact I'll be missing the end of the season anime, no."

"You're a piece of work, Yoji, you know that?"

"I'll tell you what I told a friend of mine: my service is only a means to provide for my hobby. Can you really blame me for that?" he tipped the American beer at me. God bless Coors.

I shrugged. "Guess I couldn't."

"And besides, regardless of why, we'd still be fighting the same enemy regardless, right?"

"Suppose not." Itami, at least to my impression, was a man smarter than most, smarter than me perhaps. Still, as an aspiring politician I knew when it was a good time to make friends, and he was not a bad friend to make considering how we were tied together by newspaper and deployment that was coming.

"Also-…. Tracey's not the only man who died that day."

The JSDF had suffered greatly during the battle. Off duty personnel such as Itami had been caught off guard, and for the first time Japan had mourned "wartime" losses to the tune of almost a hundred service people.

"Yeah, rather selfish of me to think… I'm telling you man, you did a damn good job saving people's lives."

"Thanks… but not all of them… There was a little girl…"

I patted his shoulder as he drifted, eyes staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Took him out his reverie with a little frown, my head shaking as if to say 'get out of here'. He understood what I meant.

"So. You been in Japan eight months and you have not watched any anime?"

"Well, shit, I mean, I seen a few episodes of some random shows here and there, but-"

"Let me introduce you to Mei Com then!"

* * *

 ** _Two months since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _Japan – Tokyo Bay – Amphibious Assault Ship USS Normandy_**

* * *

I had been a bit short of breath these last few weeks, given the rigorous PT and drills being held on Yokota. The merits of being an Army Special Forces tagging along with the 7th Marine Expeditionary Unit. Not that me or any of my soldiers were unfit, it was just more of the fact that our training had more purpose than just keeping regulation.

In fact the only regulations we broke recently had been one ordered down from the brass: grooming standards were lifted and thus giving both the men to grow out beards and moustaches while allowing the women to actually have their long strands again. Bannon protested on account she hated having a pony tail, but it was more of an order that her brown, rather thick hair now cascaded down her shoulders when it wasn't tied up into a pony tail or bun.

It was a refreshing change of pace, my curls growing out again along with my beard that had been liable to go the way of Drake.

They'd also been liable to itchy with the sweat, which is why I was still a bit itchy around the lower half of my face when I was brought with Andrade to the USS Normandy, the 7th's main deployment platform, and saw the vehicles I was expected to be familiarized with in the coming days. The Well Deck had been busy and full with these new additions that had been picked up from San Diego and ferried all the way back to Tokyo.

"We're allocating four Humvees from this selection off to your platoon. Rest are for the 7th."

The well deck and the cargo holds had been rather at capacity as me and Andrade had made our way through, displaying the equipment we were getting from the mainland. I had already been alerted through Itami of what their force was gonna look like and I had been surprised.

"Remember, the Japanese do not have a military; just an active self-defense force. Most of their inventory and training was never meant for such an offensive operations… that and they're not recovering from some of the defense budget cuts fast enough to transition anything that isn't old up for the invasion."

Andrade had answered my question regarding that, the way he had said "invasion" had been so easy.

I took a closer look at the MBTs we were allocating for this operation and the men working on them as the waves of Tokyo Bay bounced on the ship softly.

"Jesus Christ. Those M1A5s?"

"Wrong, lieutenant. They're the A1 models." I gapped at him. "You won't believe where these vehicles we're assigning you and the 7th are coming from, history wise."

They were tan. **_A Gulf War tan_**.

"These tanks and Humvees you're looking at right now last saw action in 2003." Andrade seemed rather proud of the fact.

"We're invading the place past the Gate with vehicles we used to invade Iraq?" I asked, confused.

"Don't worry. They've been cleaned and brought up to George Bush era spec as best as our boys could. You won't be fighting with them to use them. You won't even know these things saw Iraqi Freedom."

I gave Andrade an odd look. He knew I wasn't concerned about the state of the vehicles as opposed of the history they carried.

"Look. Yeah, I know it might not be a good scenario if the public finds out these tanks were in Baghdad. Might think we're gonna do what we did in Iraq on the other side, but the men are what makes the metal move, not the other way around."

"I believe you, colonel… still, this is some heavy stuff we're pushing compared to Japan."

Iraqi Freedom era weaponry had still been thirty, twenty years ahead of Japan as a whole in regards to what they were fielding. We were training with M16s for a reason then, I realized. Not the Army's current standard issue, MCRA1 rifles.

"Well, it's a compromise of sorts. Only 2000 or so Americans will be on the other side for the first year while the Japanese will sustain 10,000 personnel."

"…Seems a bit lopsided for…- I guess I should say that worries me." My beard had itched more.

"Afraid that the Japanese are gonna side line you?"

"Yes, but also if they're going to deny us any meaningful action." For Tracey, of course.

"Respectfully, lieutenant, you'll be the only organized special forces unit over there with your Rangers. That and the Marines are shock troopers that JSDF do not have access to on their own."

"So we'll find our use?"

"The Marine command over there will take care of you Army boys. Promise you. Now pick your Humvees so we can get out of here."

* * *

 ** _Three months since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _D-Day_**

 ** _Japan – Ginza – The Gate_**

* * *

Itami and I had found each other a handshake and a proceeding of dropping flowers at the memorial to the Ginza Incident later, the entire squad having left flowers for Tracey with some other tearful civilians. It was an affair that had reminded me of the wall devoted to the Vietnam casualties in Washington DC, but all of these names were of civilians entirely. Men, women, and children taken away in their prime by a 60,000 strong army we had all killed save for six thousand prisoners.

We didn't have any formal suits or black linens to wear however, today was the day, and we were ordered to organize for the public ceremony deploying us through the gate to great fanfare.

As such we were all dressed up in our combat gear, and, much like the rest of the equipment, it had been Gulf War vintage. Which is to say a lot of units in the Gulf War went in unprepared and were given woodland camouflage in the desert. The kits and uniforms would fit in well enough according to the first scouting reports from the other side of the Gate: mere snatch and grabs of sediment samples and atmospheric conditions, as well as pictures of the immediate area around the Gate on the other side, which there had been.

Even had my rifle on me, albeit unloaded: the mags in my chest carrier.

We had been split off officially from Bravo Company, my platoon and I, all of them minus Masterson having just been introduced to Itami as we all exchanged greetings.

We were now designated Hitman Squad, a platoon sized Army Ranger liaison force attached to the US 7th Marine Expeditionary Unit. I had been Hitman Actual then. 1-1 Actual being Sergeant Bannon and 2-1 Actual being Masterson.

"You're taller in the pictures." Bannon had said as she offered her hand to Itami, hair poking out of her watch cap. Despite the fact it wasn't dark we had our black beanies on, if only to give shit to the Marines about who really had been the Special Forces here. They'd all been rolled up to our foreheads though now.

He tried to smile as best he could as the smaller woman had shaken his hand with a vice like grip.

"Ah? Well, all the photos the media ever got of me was three months ago. Not so interested now."

"Go easy on Itami Bannon, he's a softie on the inside." Masterson had taken her shoulders as he had slowly dragged her away. Bannon was a very competitive person, all things considered.

After the squad had done their rounds with the Hero of Ginza… or at least, another Hero, I had reassumed myself in front of him as the vehicles of both our forces had hid in the alley ways before the Gate. They had been hiding in there as the infantry had been told to keep up front when the Prime Minister and the brass address us. It was cleaner for the cameras that way.

Every other row from the bottom up had been an alternation of the first hundred and fifty infantry between us and the JSDF, Itami had been, naturally, up front, me and Masterson just behind him according to the lineup plan.

That was still a few hours away.

"Look at you, all spiffy and armored up." I had pat the man's chest with my Oakley covered fists.

"You guys are outfitted with old gear." That the JSDF had on us, Itami had mentioned, their gear all current, our gear about thirty years out of date compared to our standard issues.

"More than enough for us." Harris had proudly shook his kit, half of it woodland, the other half black and desert. Man had been a football player in some less than well funded school, he knew how to work with hand me downs.

Besides, we were with Marines now. They were never really properly equipped. It kept them angry enough to kill. We were held to the same standard now.

"I've been checking out some of your tanks, you only got four?"

"Yeah. All we need, Yoji. Or at least, as much as we're comfortable enough bringing over."

We were called the Special Task Force now, simply, not a joint task force or anything, but simply, Special Task Force. It worked enough, and today was the first day we were allowed to intermingle, just hours away from deployment as the "Special Region Deployment Ceremony" was being set in place.

I think I had seen a few Marines wrestling a few of the JSDF in the alleyway on the way here in good jest, the two sides even running drills when they could with imaginary guns and imaginary scenarios in store aisles.

We both looked at the metal shell of the world's bane, we all did and how pristine it looked, guards from the JSDF and even the UN posted outside of it like it was the old Korean DMZ.

"How does it feel being back here, Kay?"

"It's just another street, Yoji. Why?"

The man had summoned a wrap of flowers himself, placing it with the piles of others. He left my question unanswered, but he returned to us all the same.

"More than welcome to hang out with us, lieutenant, but I'm gonna go check up on those tank crews."

"Why?"

"Oh, they have a bit of aura to them. Concerned and what not."

"Next time we talk might be on the other side, you know."

"Well, I'll see you on the other side then. Squad? Keep Itami company."

"Aye sir." they all responded and I had departed.

* * *

The ceremony wouldn't start before the columns were in order, and seeing as the Abrams were the most heavily armed and Armored elements in the main force that was rolling out, they were up front and center of the vehicle organization just because of tactical merit.

I heard a Japanese officer bellyache it should've been a Japanese tank up front, but if the Americans wanted to be the first in the fire, they'd let us be. The contrast between the Japanese mossy green and our desert tan had been striking as well.

They really did pull these victors out of the Iraq War reserves from two decades ago.

Still even if they were rather aged on our end, it was still thirty years better than the Type-74s immediately behind our four Abrams. It could be argued that the M1s were Cold War horses, but the Type-74s were Cold War vintage. But then again, the Type-74 tank had been a millennium above the opposing forces force projection.

There was something about the tanks that had seen Iraq under Saddam Hussein's rule though that had been amazing to us. As if, once again, we were gonna spread democracy to an oil rich land of chaos and Arabs.

They did it once. They had it in them to do it again as they all ran in idle, tank crews from both countries and other Victor drivers scrambling about for final checks in their alleys, hiding away from being sore sights in the cameras that were quickly being set up.

"Well ain't it one of the Heroes of Ginza! He's also eying up my tank!" The voice was English, British in tone. I raised a very questionative eyebrow.

The voice came from on top of the tank, head going in that direction as a man two inches more my height with dirty brown, well-groomed rows to match a rather fighting smile.

Hands cocked on his hips, he had sat himself down on the turret as the tank purred.

Gloved hands reached for each other and shook.

"2nd Lieutenant Kristian Emerson. You've probably heard of me."

"Sergeant Alton Wilbur. Been with the Marines for four years now. Pleasure to make the acquaintance lieutenant."

His hands had gone up and fidgeted, almost as if he had a hat to tip. His helmet and visor didn't play in though.

"Your skin doesn't look like you were training at Yokota or Okinawa."

"I'm actually 1st Marine Division out of Pendleton, but I'm tacked on here. Headquarters said they needed someone like me in an Abrams for this. In fact, lot of the tankers are mixed from different units and branches, ain't that right Dixie?"

"Fuck off English!" A voice had come from the tank, Wilbur banging his hand on the tank.

"See, we all get along." he tried to convince me.

"Sound like a whole lotta trouble for a few men." I noted.

"Well, you know, infinite wisdom and all that crap. That and I don't mind being one of the first Americans through."

We men shared a knowing nod of that eternal tale of military leadership, nothing more to be said.

"I'd see you as a Brit you know."

"Found out by the voice?"

"Nah, lucky guess."

"Hmph. Well, moved the way of England to New England few years back. Got restless and joined the Marines. Can't say they were fan of me and my wonderful charm. Understand leftenant?"

Never had a Brit under my command, had to wonder if this man was embedded SAS. Of course I doubted it, not like the US would allow this kind of man to pass under Japan's radar so blatantly.

There had been fabric, similar enough to blend into the tank's paint job, over a section of the one hundred twenty mil gun, wrapped up tight with a barely noticeable line going from it to the Commander's hatch.

Same was to be said with all four tanks.

I pointed a finger over at it with a questionative look, to which the man laughed.

"Barrel shroud." he had nodded. He was lying through his teeth, but so would the rest of the tank commanders. "Trust me, lieutenant, they'll come off when it's time."

I could only give a sympathetic, or apathetic, nod, and the man simply gave himself another laugh and stood, giving me salute. I saluted back.

The whistle had blown for the infantry to present themselves before the Gate and the speaking stand of those who were slated to talk to us before our deployment, the controlled chaos accelerated ten times.

"Gonna be a long ass day, leftenant, I'm sure we'll see each other on the far side." Wilbur said quietly, urging me on.

"Of course." And so I took off back through the tanks to my waiting men.

* * *

2nd row, just behind Itami, my Rangers having all formed out the first line across the two columns. I slid in with little trouble, my M16A2 with an M203 and an infrared sight held across my chest rigidly.

The JSDF had no weapons to display during this, but Colonel Pierce had made a note to make sure we had been at arms the entire day, all the way through to deployment.

If America had the bigger teeth during this op, we were going to display it.

The Gate we were going to be marching through had been under lock and key and dome: a steel casing having closed it off from the outside world until needed, which had been probably an hour by now as the Prime Minister of Japan, a new one that had come and gone ever since the Incident, had been yelling about us being the pride of Japan and her allies.

The closer we had gotten to D-Day in fullest, the more anxious I had been getting about just getting over there. Enough about the politics and talking, I was trained to fight by a factor of ten these last three months and god damned I wanted to do something about it.

"This bill has been adopted thanks to the efforts of Former Prime Minster Houjou and the offcials from all political parties, and now, at last we are ready to deploy the men of the JSDF in concert with a deployment of the USFJ."

I saw Masterson give me an annoyed look at the side of my vision.

"All of you, the mission with which you have been charged is of grave importance to the state of Japan and its people. But we know we would want no one else to go unto the breach today, on behalf of us all."

The Prime Minister had finished up his statements as the cameras started snapping pictures back and forth like gunfire. No sooner had he left had three uniformed commanders had taken the stage.

Flanking the Japanese CO of this entire operation had been Colonel Pierce and Major Sevson of the 7th MEU, veterans of the Second Korean War. As far as I was concerned they were the only officers in the region that were capable of handling an operation like this: an invasion. They had been of a dying breed: of people in the US Military who had seen, fought, and led in a war. They had their stars and battle stripes.

The Commander of the Japanese forces had forgone the microphone entirely.

"I am Hazama, you're Commander!" I finally returned the look to Masterson, expecting more bite. Hell, we weren't even at attention properly, only because it wasn't called.

"Many scouts have entered the Gate in the past month, but nobody will know what happens to us in the Special Region. Thus, you must be prepared for combat to begin from the moment we cross the Gate."

The US Officers had seemed anxious to take the stand as Commander Hazama had finished with his brief remarks, this was mostly just for show, as we had already been introduced yesterday to these people.

Major Sevson did it as if it was the first time over, his New Jersey attitude coming right out and open to people who didn't even know what New Jersey was.

My Rangers had seemed finally happy something fitting was about to happen.

"Attention!" The US Marines and my Rangers had straightened our backs so fast, so rigidly the streets echoed with our one combined move, feet at forty five, as our heads were head high.

The Japanese SDF were caught off guard by this, but they had followed within the second after their stumble.

Sevson had a hell of a voice, as befit an officer of his caliber.

"I am Major Sevson, and I am here today on behalf of the Commondant of the United States Marine Corps and the United States Government to be a part of the Special Task Force!"

"Good afternoon Major Sevson!" The combined yells of a hundred Marines echoed through the street as our yells delivered silence.

"With me today is Colonel Pierce, the American CO of this task force!"

"Good afternoon Colonel Pierce!" we yelled again.

"Marines!" Sevson had continued, we somehow tightening our stances even more as, for all intents and purposes, our Jesus Christ was before us now: the man we had to listen to with religious reverence. Just how the battlefield worked.

"Today you do as our ancestors of Tripoli and Okinawa did! Even in a land as virgin from the soles of our glorious Corps, we will walk in the footsteps of those before us! And not only will we walk! We will Run! We will Crawl! We will Kill! All while the ghosts of Marines of days of old watch over us! **_Oorah?!_** "

" ** _Oorah!_** "

"The people responsible for the men, women, and children whose names we have inscribed on this wall for all time, are beyond this. God. Forsaken. Gate. Japanese, American, their nationality does not matter to us at this point. What matters is the fact their lives was taken unfairly, and by the God given graces we will be **_fair_** to the **_upmost degree_** to whoever orchestrated this attack. We will be better than them. We will adhere to our morality, our ethics, the laws of war as dictated by the Geneva convention and the UN, but when push comes to shove and we are forced to deal with these uncivilized people, as they have demonstrated during the attacks three months ago, we will do one thing above all:"

He stopped and took a breath. This was a certainly better speech, said entirely in English, some of the Japanese struggling to understand, and only following the cues from the Americans.

Commander Hazama had given a look of odd distress to the Major. This wasn't what was rehearsed for the public.

"Marines!" There was such contempt, such grittiness in his address. Us Rangers gave each other a quick glance of not knowing what was happening, but elation as we basked in the hype, the motivation. "Kill on three!"

"One!" I, perhaps, gave a look of worry of how vanilla this would've been for the media, but we rolled with it. We were soldiers, and what Major Sevson was about to make us rattle off would not be false.

"Two!" Itami had taken in a breath as I saw him in front of me, glancing left, to the civilians still left mourning their dead. There was a girl…

"Three!"

My body had snapped me away from wondering about who he had been looking at as my lungs brought in air and expelled them so hard it had made the windows shake, and the ground quake with the combined emotion of a hundred Marines and a few Japanese who were playing along.

 ** _"Kill!"_**

 ** _"Again!"_**

 ** _"Kill!"_**

 ** _"One more time!"_**

 ** _"KILL!"_**

"Get to your vehicles, we're oscar mike in fifteen."

"Yes sir!"

Like a school of fish we had gotten to the concrete sidewalks as the vehicles from the alleyways had all roared to life and whelled themselves out for us to get in, right in front of the gate: the Four M1A1s front and center in single file. They were not small enough to go inside by side due to the size of the entrance.

The Humvees and the LAVs for the Japanese were rolled in behind, when the last vehicle having stopped in what was easily a division and then some's in power, we had taken off in a rush to get to our vehicles and await of opening up the dome.

The 7th MEU would be split up into ten waves throughout the next few days, the Japanese force taking upwards of a hundred.

My own soldiers would be entirely on the other side in one go courtesy of four Humvees. All twenty. The loss of Tracey had been shored up by another man, giving us twenty strong set up spread out over four vehicles, five to a car.

Masterson had been at the wheel easily enough, Private Black, Corporal Peters, and Private Harris having gotten with us.

Our magazines had finally gotten into our guns as all of the men had entered their vehicles with coordinated precision, Masterson ducking his head respectfully as the Colonel and Major went through the center of the two columns behind the Abrams, back to the command vehicle.

Colonel Pierce stopped at us, banging against the desert Humvee outfitted with a Mark-19 grenade launcher.

Kansas native, forty, his face that of a colonel in every way: gray hair even.

"You ready to roll Ranger?" he asked me.

"Been ready for the last three months." I said, speaking for more than just my soldiers.

"Damn straight, Hitman… shame we ain't got a reporter riding with us." The policy regarding media taken over there hadn't been any different from the usual SOP in conventional deployments, which is to say that they were allowed, but we'd would have to hold them for possibly a year. Our deployment was looking that long, and who knew when they'd get any sort of communication of the digital variety set up.

"Any of my boys give you Army folks any shit?"

Masterson had laughed. "It's all fun and games, sir."

"They don't seem to want to pick a fight with you in particular, Lieutenant Emerson." Colonel Pierce said. "I suppose you're more than just a reputation."

Of course that reputation proceeded me all the same.

"Japs say they want us to button up, but I don't think it's an issue." That is what Pierce had left my vehicle with as he walked down to his Marines in earnest, the men having given a round of applause for Major Sev's speech.

The radio on my dash had sowly come to life from the other Hitman victors. It was Bannon. "Hitman 1-1 here. Interrogative: Colonel say something interesting to you Hitman-Actual?"

"Negative 1-1. All Hitman victors, we good to go?" Didn't really need to ask when this four grid block that had been our Humvees was within close proximity, the squad all giving me thumbs up all around me as the gunners mounted their positions.

In front of me had been the Type-74s and the Abrams in front of them, behind me had been the JSDF infantry, then the Marines, then the support vehicles: artillery and logistics. This was only the first wave and it was a damned sight more impressive than any combination of military personnel I'd seen thus far.

"How are we looking for air power, sir?" Harris had yelled in the back over the sound of idling vehicles.

"Cobras from the Marines and the JSDF are going to be wheeled in pieces within the twenty four hours, we'll be engaging any wyverns or dragons from the ground only. Should have a Gepard back there or something." Maybe the fifties would be enough, but I wasn't complaining if they got SPAAGs with us.

"This is Colonel Pierce to all Special Task Force elements." The Colonel had paused as a Japanese interpreter echoed his statement in Japanese. "I will be assuming callsign Overlord for the duration of Operation Odyssey Ultimatum. All leads, check in."

Operation Odyssey Ultimatum had been the American name, the JSDF deployment not having a particular name for it. "Hitman Actual calling in." I echoed.

"This is Warlord Actual, ready to roll." The Abrams call signs with Wilbur.

"Assassin Actual. Locked and loaded." That had been Major Sevson again.

All that was left to wait was for the Japanese to lock down and for the Gate to open, the signs and the decorations all starting to come down as the pathway was cleared, the media from news outlets the world over taking pictures of us. We had been specifically told to ignore them, as annoying as it was.

The sound of air raid sirens had blared in the air as we the giant metal creaking of the dome was split open.

The gate itself was not touched past the first few scientific samples that did say it was indeed a mortal thing: of rock and marble and a particular funny looking gem on its crest. Damn thing looked like it come out of Italy… so much so we had Italian architecture analysts come down here to try and explain it.

"Suck in that fresh air boys, might be the last one we get of this world." Masterson had yelled. I didn't really think of it that way as my rifle poked outside the Humvee's shotgun position, pulling my face mask up over my mouth and nose.

Japanese personnel had gone to either side of the dome's opening with guiding sticks.

"Move out!" Hazawa's voice had given the order, and we had all seen the Japanese button up and close their hatches. None of us had even rolled up the windows.

The cheering from the back of civilians and those soldiers left in the trail position had propelled us forward and Warlord and the Japanese Type-74s had moved forward, their exhaust in our wake.

 _"My daddy's gon' be proud."_ Peter said, our Humvees moving past the dome and into the foyer of the Gate, the last of the blue sky gone from our view.

We waited thirty seconds as the Type-74s disappeared from the black, giving them ample time to get to the other side of the Gate and provide covering fire if needed for us.

Those thirty seconds were, for some, the longest of their lives, but all the worry, all the misgivings of the commencement of this defacto invasion had been gone from our minds as the world we knew it turned into black.

The void, this place between worlds.

"Ain't this what limbo looks like?" Bannon had been the first to comment as we drone on through and were enveloped in nothingness, locking our steering wheels straight forward as the illumination from the tanks guided us.

"Radio sil-" I had almost been able to get out when I heard the clamor all the way in the back. The only sounds that were, were the ones that we made, the Marines in the back had made a hell of a noise in their Humvees and LAVs.

* * *

 ** _Now Playing:_**

 ** _The Glitch Mob - Seven Nation Army Remix (The White Stripes)_**

* * *

Someone had set up god damn loudspeakers in one of their cars:

"Psy-ops eh?" Black had said in the turret.

The lonely sound of rumbling had been joined by drums, the Marines in the back beginning to howl like wolves together like a chant. The baseline had become our heartbeat.

 ** _I'm gonna fight 'em off_**

 ** _A seven nation army couldn't hold me back_**

I saw Sergeant Wilbur pop out from the commander's hatch, he slightly flinching as he got used to the tingly feeling of this place of limbo, the other tank commanders, even the lead element, doing the same as they all seized the lines leading to the fabric on their barrel shrouds and very carefully pulling on them, and getting them into their hatches.

I from my shotgun seat had been one of the first to know why the tanks had been covering their barrels up:

"Holy shit, get eyes on the Warlords." Masterson had said from the driver's seat, Black shifting in his turret to get a look as the rest of the Marines and Rangers got a look, breaking off from their singing.

Warlord 1-1 had, on his barrel, the most tasteful of the titles and designs that the tanks had revealed to have been named with:

"We Came as Romans!"

1-2: Rolling Stone

1-3: Kingdom Come, the mine plow up front having been painted all black I just noticed. It had been very much like a pair of tusks.

1-4: NCC 1701-FU, "To Boldly Go…" had been written as a subtitle along with a voluptuous alien riding a man in Starfleet uniform by artwork.

I suppose we were all boldly going now, where no man had gone before.

Wilbur had caught my gaze and gave me a cheeky thumbs up as he had locked back the Browning M2 attached to his hatch's turret ring, the rest of the Abrams commanders doing the same.

If Japan had been the consciousness of this operation, America had been the soul, and thus we were the ones to show heart as we all hollered and yelled of singing and war cries, exposed to the electrified air of this portal between worlds.

The end was in sight, and the manual singing had fallen in line as Marine's Humvee had suddenly come alive with an awesome guitar song from another era, all of the marine's singing along as the company commander had manically laughed in the background:

 ** _They're gonna rip it off_**

 ** _Taking their time right behind my back_**

 ** _And I'm talkin' to myself at night_**

 ** _Because I can't forget_**

A few of the Japanese had shifted from their carriers and through the confines of their seats to get a good look at us: The Americans.

This tunnel had given one hell of an acoustic reverb. It was almost demonic in a way.

 ** _Back and forth through my mind_**

 ** _Behind a cigarette_**

Masterson and Black had started stomping in the Humvees to the beat, the other Ranger Humvee headed by Bannon and my corporals already vibrating from their playing along, of the hype of a world about to be subject to them.

"This is some good shit!" My squad lead had pointed at the man jamming with him in the turret.

 ** _And the message comin' from my eyes says, "Leave it alone."_**

By the time I had started singing I had to shut up, even as all my Rangers had joined the Marines in the choir, the bright light at the end of the darkness another square of white that was ever coming closer. What we were all supposedly supposed to see in death.

"All elements we have positive ID on the exit! Lock and load." Warlord 1-1 had yelled in English, the Japanese taking the information and buttoning down their hatches as we stayed out.

Black had hit the Mark-19 with a good bolt pull again, the first of the forty mike mikes chambered, as the Humvees all got their weapons ready, I making a good show of loading a grenade into my launcher and chambering my first round in my M16A2.

 ** _Don't wanna hear about it_**

 ** _Every single one's got a story to tell_**

 ** _Everyone knows about it_**

 ** _From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell_**

 ** _And if I catch it comin' back my way_**

 ** _I'm gonna serve it to you_**

 ** _And that ain't what you want to hear_**

 ** _But that's what I'll do_**

"Here we go!" Harris had howled from his seat, the Abrams disappearing into the blinding white light and disappearing. Masterson had put the pedal to the metal as the Humvees had all roared to life, the Japanese left behind us, fueled by the words of this song.

The only ones of the JSDF able to get ahead with us had been the Type-74s.

This feeling I had tried to remember as the vehicles vibrated as they were washed over with white light: This was the feeling people needed to go to war with, the one that propelled them forward into other lands.

This is what it must've been like to step off the beaches of Normandy, to cross the barriers of Iraq and Kuwait, to be the first of the air cavalry to invade North Vietnam.

Us select few.

That term, the motto of the 75th Ranger Regiment, had kept with me as I held my breath behind my face wrap. I, much like most reasonable people, had simply thought of it as an honorary title meant to pump hearts in formal events. Though like a lot of things recently, this was not simply a statement: it was a state of being.

Rangers led the way.

 ** _And the feeling coming from my bones says, "Find a home."_**

For a second I had wondered if our entire world had turned black again, but no, it was only night judging from the stars above, I leaning out of my window and behind: Another Gate. It was a two way street and we had gone down it, finally.

Out to our front: the twinkle of not stars: but torches and camps.

Go time underneath the blue moon.

* * *

 ** _And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding_**

 ** _Right before the lord_**

 ** _All the words are gonna bleed from me_**

 ** _And I will think no more_**

Wilbur had been streaming the same music into the Abrams, looking through the commander's MFD and viewfinder, switched immediately for nightvision and thermals as Warlord had been the first victors out, center piece as the Type-74s had fanned out and taken to the wings accordingly, only sure of the movement, and not of what they were driving on after coming from the slope of the Gate.

"Jesus fuck! Commandant really wants that shit to keep playing?" The loader of 1-3 had seemed surprised.

"Let it play!" the gunner had yelled out, the hatch being unlocked as Emerson had emerged from the hot seat and gotten eyes on himself, the song about to repeat itself.

 ** _And the stains comin' from my blood tell me, "Go back home."_**

The first man to do so as the rest of the Abrams took perimeter positions.

The binoculars were turned on, and slowly, very slowly, everything 500m and out had suddenly been ablaze with fire.

He sat back down into the command chair as the turret had seen what he did, his radio being pulled and yelled into:

"Warlord 1-3, contact bearing one-nine-three on the nose! Are we cleared hot?!"

Before he had even received an answer the loader had gotten a read on the situation, high explosive being loaded into the breach as he stuck to the side and awaited for fire.

"Enemy army spotted!" The Japanese Type-74s on the frontal line had confirmed the visual.

"This is Overlord to all combat elements, you are weapons hold. I repeat, you are weapons hold! Do not engage!" Colonel Pierce had yelled himself to hold fire, but that great build up was not gonna go unanswered for long, as much as Wilbur had slumped into his seat with shattered expectations.

Emerson had listened to the radio, and the sighting of hostiles had been the cue as the Humvees and Komatsu LAVs got behind the protective shell of the tanks, but still out enough for the gunners to begin lining up sights.

With that him and Masterson had vacated the vehicle, the man yelling into his radio.

"Autogunners set up position forward toward hostiles. Everyone else on the illumination mortars or take up firing positions!" Emerson had yelled into his radio meaning only for his squad, but the plan was the same throughout as the forward teams started exiting the gate in full.

Main force would take another five to ten mikes to start exiting, leaving the initial force of 150 Japanese GSDF soldiers and 100 Americans alone in this strange new world, albeit with heavy firepower and provisions befit the de facto invasion operation.

Twelve Type-74s, four Abrams, supplementary vehicles, and just shy three hundred men with necessary equipment.

Some on Earth had already been suspecting what such a force could do to the men in the world past the Gate, some had suspected that the scouts had been massacred and thus necessitated such powerful machines, but at the end of the day it will never come down to what, who, and even why this Task Force went.

 ** _I'm gonna fight 'em off_**

 ** _A seven nation army couldn't hold me back_**

Japan was attacked, thus, the JSDF fought there.

But with the JSDF had been the Americans, the Ranger platoon whose leader had saved so many lives, and the Marines who had carried the ghosts of American military might. Like the unwilling ferryman, the Japanese had carried more and more luggage, and with them, perhaps for themselves, an old American doctrine…

"Everyone not on mortar duty, on the front, now! Firing positions! **_Go! Go! Go!_** " Emerson had yelled, his hands waving toward the front as he had joined them all: light machine gun teams, anti-armor detachments, marksmen, Japanese, American. Side by side and ready for what those fires in the distance had meant.

Whoever on the other side of the Gate needed the Japanese people's guidance, the punishment, the introduction to them, and that was why the Japanese had been so willing and so convinced of those facts, and perhaps America had seen themselves in the reflection so much that they saw it only natural to tag along.

"Fire volley! Illumination, repeat five times. On my mark! Fire!" One of the Marine captains had swung down his arms and the mortar tubes had sent illumination rounds that had lit up the night sky almost like it was day, the enemy down below not understanding what they were seeing by the light of God's eyes over what they saw as their holiest hill.

It was a quiet night, and the sound of the mortars firing had been like thunder amazingly, the roar of the tanks still ever present.

Indeed, to those below, as deities are often relative, Gods had been coming: events that would be written in scroll, word, and art as the worlds would never be the same.

It was the story of a world connected to another world. The thing that connected the two worlds was known to the people as the Gate.

"This is Hitman Actual," Emerson had throated into his radio as he laid prone against the ground: good ole fashioned dirt and broke grass that had been leveled by marching, the crest just a few dozen meters out from the Gate being where the tanks had taken firing positions as the infantry with Emerson took up forward posts. "Positive ID on Dragons moving to engage. Overlord, suggest getting to Hazawa and clearing us hot! Over."

 ** _And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding_**

 ** _Right before the lord_**

 ** _All the words are gonna bleed from me_**

 ** _And I will think no more_**

"Roger." Overlord had dropped the man to man talk and went throughout all of the radios, permission already cleared apparently. "This is Overlord Actual to all JSDF and American forces, you are cleared hot on everything in front of us. **_We want no survivors_**. Overlord out."

The men up and down the trenches had looked at each other, understood the English. Above all those men, Itami and Emerson had caught eyes in the somewhat lightened dark.

Soldiers tightened their forms, guns put on the ground to steady for recoil and sights aimed down as the first dragon came forward into firing range.

Now was what every single soldier had been waiting to do for the last three months, and the man to first send a down range would belong to the definition of American war power. A fitting shot, the scale of which perfectly defined not the carnage, but by what methods the carnage would be performed by.

Warlord 1-3's barrel had boomed out loud, making the earth shake, the single hot high explosive round soaring through the air after its explosive exit from the Abrams. It flew like a red star, all the way down range, at least a kilometer out, and landing dead center of the enemy base camp, sending a giant ploom of dirt, damned men, and dragons up into the sky in dust and pieces.

With that, the task force fought on in a hail of shrapnel, stars, and sustained fire.


	3. Foreword

_Another Solider. Another Story. Another Silhouette of Time._

* * *

I admit, I am terribly American, it's in my blood. Although it may be distasteful to some, my Western point of view can be taken in occasional doses for the hell of it. Not out of malice for anyone who isn't American, nor out of ignorance of other people's culture in general, but it's who I am and how I write best.

With that being said,

This is a story about an uncomplicated soldier. A man born and raised the American Way, and now at arms for that life.

A world of peace has come over the mankind, and although the scars of yesterday's tribulations and conflict are still there, the world, for once, is in harmony.

All is well for 2nd Lieutenant Kristian "JK" Emerson, United States Forces Japan. Up until a biblical event bridges worlds together and renders him the only American with authority in Tokyo's Ginza district. Side by side with a certain other 2nd Lieutenant counterpart in the JSSDF, he is in the unique position to spearhead America's invasion as part of the US Military's forces into Japan's newly deemed Special Region with the Special Task Force.

American citizens died due to the attack in Ginza, and as such, America would accept nothing less but to be there with the JSDF as the old demons of American imperialism come alive again in seething vengeance.

A man, very wary of the mistakes of his country's past, the righteousness he carries is one that is all so deceiving behind proxy and politics.

This is a story about history's repetition, the futility of mankind trying to maintain peace and the high horses we ride on.

* * *

Unlike my other stories, I'll make this one up as I go because this series, at least to me, is slowly becoming alive and I do quite like the premise.

As such, this is the story I write to have fun, and perhaps might not be updated or polished as often as the others I have on my plate as of writing this foreword: ( _ **In My Keeping**_ for Evangelion, _**Silhouette of Time**_ for Landwalker's Yellow Nuzlocke (and the supplementary **_Merry Christmas Mister Noelle_**.).)

This is as much as a crack fic you will ever see from me, and, in the words of the the inventor of 9Gag, Facebook, Myspace, and Limewire, Christopher Poole:

The stories and information posted here are artistic works of fiction and _ **falsehood.**_

Always wanted to work with magical girls.

Also being the fourth Gate fanfiction in this section doesn't sound so bad...


	4. 1-1: Hearts and Minds

A/N: Oh boy, muse is really kicking.

Author's note time:

First off, thank you all for sky rocketing this story to one of the top followed, favorited, and reviewed in this section. It's really appreciated and each review just urges me on to keep pushing out massive chapters like this.

Anyway, review responses:

Nerdfish – Yeah, I know they're not actually Gepards, and I'm impressed you actually called that out, but the Guntanks are similar enough I imagine Emerson here would refer to them as Gepards. I mean, I play Wargame: Red Dragon enough to know what it is, and I have to imagine a lot of people into this series are as well. I'll be shipping over Harriers and Blackhawks soon, so we'll have more fun with equipment soon. Feel free to keep calling anything out, if not for me, but for trivia for everyone.

Guests, Shadow Marshal – Thanks for saving my butt and pointing out some inconsistencies, like Itami's commission and pushing me to a place where I can read the manga. Helps out and gives me some more desperately needed sources.

Twitchel – I think you'll have your answer in this chapter initially. I mean, I want Itami and Emerson to be together, just to have the American v Japanese views on things when it gets hot and controversial later on, so I presume. If I find myself in a situation where Hitman goes off on their own, and I do have a situation which will call for it in both an endgame and a mid story arc, I'll shift away.

Shadowstorm117 – Emerson's bisexual. I'll say that outloud and proud right here. But he's a good soldier and so it has no bearing on him or this story's plot sans the occasional soldier to soldier ribbing, as is very much displayed in this story's other source: Generation Kill. As for other people… well, I'll try some things out.

Now in general:

Yeah, it always starts out as an America fuck yeah thing, doesn't it? Iraq, Afghanistan, the Middle East and all of our wars since World War Two. I'm telling ya, go watch Generation Kill, America fuck yeah can only go so far before we have to go back and see what that means in the long run, past the elation of superiority.

Cameras, the Go-Pros you'll see, they'll serve their purpose eventually. Not for Hitman though. They know better. They all do. As for the other Americans… Well, wait and see.

* * *

 _ **The Beginning of Section 1**_

 _ **Section 1-1**_

* * *

The infrared sight was exchanged with an ACOG when we had gone out. It had served me well these past four days, but the entire mess of two kilometers out from Omega Point, as was the codename for this end of the Gate, was alight with bodies still warm from the slaughter of the last seventy hours or so.

We had been crouched just below the crest of this particular bump in the land about a kilometer out from the Gate and our defensive line, but Itami saw no need in Masterson's, Loke's, or my own defensive posturing, and how tight we held onto our rifles. He had just simply walked past us and stood on the hill, rifle down to the ground, idle.

The only sound was that of the orgy and buffet of vulture like birds going at the results of our massacre a kilometer down and the lonely ruffling of a broken flag.

Itami looked down at us, tilting his head quick for us to join him.

Loke had been a Pakistani woman of considerable gentleness, despite her conduct in battle, so she hadn't wanted to stare too long at the mess she had, although marginally, helped create.

Masterson, and perhaps even me, had been used to it.

Itami had shown apathy.

"In all my years of being a rancher, I ain't seen anything like that before sir. And hell, I was a bad rancher!"

* * *

 _ **Three months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 2**_

 _ **The Gate – Omega Point - ?**_

* * *

"Rancher?" Kurata, a sergeant under Itami's command, had asked my 2nd Squad leader, casually not even taking in the death before him that rivaled the original Ginza Incident's in scale, according to the UAVs we had launched earlier to try and take a headcount. We had been counting both pig, ogre, and whatever horrific monstrosities that were now.

Kurata was another piece of work in my mind, having rattled off to me and Masterson during our first shared night watch that he was expecting of the wonders that this kind of world had. Was a bit more open than Itami had been to me initially, but that had made it so me and Masterson had known what type of man he had been hitting for.

 _'Ain't nothing wrong with a fine female specimen, even if she has a tail and a pair of ears.'_ Was Masterson's take on it. I kept quiet. As much as Itami tried to get me into that weird show about magical girls called Mei Com, I had stayed pretty much tied down to more western works and magazines.

Like Hustler, or the Food Network Magazine.

"Yeah. I was a cowboy and all that crap, family kicked me out of the house and the only work I was able to find for the first eighteen years of my life was in pushing around livestock. Ranger training was easier, let me tell you."

"So that's your accent?" Itami had said.

"I don't know if this would make you an apostle or the scum of the Earth, sergeant." Loke had said, brushing her black bangs out of her hair as she had slung her M4A1 onto her back again.

"How so, Talia?" Masterson asked as he had idled his weapon, leaving me to only get a read on the aftermath through my weapon's optics.

"Only those who aren't even considered in the caste are fit to work with cows in India… but then again you didn't kill cows, did you?"

"Less a bull charged me, then no."

"This is why I'm not sure what to call you."

"Just call me sergeant as you have for the last year, Tal'."

"Mmm."

The thought of cows and slaughterhouses didn't exactly sit well in my stomach, I forgetting there was a body not even five feet from us, below this old, tattered flag that showed off some house banner.

"How are soldiers seen in Indian culture, Corporal Loke?" I asked.

"I think the reputation of the Indian Gorkhas should be an answer enough for that, lieutenant."

So highly held in society… not that we had shown any respect in battle to these men. If we wanted to hold any semblance of honor we might've as well had gone out here and affixed bayonets. Though I was not victim to the platitudes of old warfare.

I mean, I was stabbing people, technically. _With bullets_.

The casual talk was needed, given the atmosphere of death and spent munitions. As I had been busy tearing the flag from its broken pole, Itami had led my two attached soldiers over to a crater, an object of interest leading him over.

Marine Force Recon, Hitman, and the JSDF had sent infantry out in the two kilometer bubble surrounding our FOB, just to scan and recover anything worthy of intelligence. I had been more than convinced some of the "Marines" hadn't been, given the fact that Wilbur hadn't even been in a MEU until a few months ago for the express purpose of being here.

Asked him what kind of person that necessitated him being here, and, worryingly, he said he used to work with British Petroleum. That and he was a crack tank commander.

Didn't think too much into it. Couldn't afford to.

Took the flag and tucked it inside of my kit as I made my way back to my detachment.

Youji had just tossed the object of interest away.

"I heard we killed around 60,000 of them." Kurata said.

Between the three main attacks these last few days plus the smaller skirmishes, it made sense.

Masterson had grunted, drawing that camera he had been snapping away with for the last four days. "Damn hard to confirm kills in the dark you know… or when you can't tell whose guts were whose."

Whatever object that was had been in a crater made by one of the mortar tubes earlier, between the traditional and the air burst rounds, they were really all we needed. Not that anyone told the Abrams, Howitzers, the autogunners, or the machine gun placements to stop firing.

"They sent 60,000 to Ginza, too." Itami dryly admitted.

"120,000 in all." Loke had stated, still not wanting to look at the further carnage behind her.

She was used to killing, she really was, one on one, but enmasse… well, she had her head straight right.

"That's as much as you Americans killed during Iraqi Freedom, right Kay?" Itami asked, casting his low gaze once again through the mass of tangled limbs, wooden spears, horses, and whatever had been liable to get shot at.

I had done a lot of research on Iraqi Freedom, even before I joined the military. I was born on the day Iraqi Freedom kicked off, and if I hadn't been curious I was lying to myself.

"Around three times that, actually." I admitted.

"Hey, Ell-Tee, your iPhone." Masterson had made it sound like I dropped it, but when I checked my front pocket it was still there in its ballistic case. I took it out and Masterson held out a hand, I gave it to him. He had flipped on the camera as Talia and him had latched onto my sides with happy faces, holding out the camera with its front towards us as he motioned for Kurata and Itami.

Didn't know why, but I flashed a peace sign as I found myself in an odd place for a group selfie.

The two JSDF soldiers had gotten on a hand on both my shoulders as they said cheese, the picture snapping and Masterson shoving the phone into one of my mag carriers.

I took it back out to view the gallery.

It was rather nice, minus the death and destruction in the foreground.

"The hell was that Cam?" I asked.

"Memories my man. Text me that when we get back, alright?"

I only shook my head in moderate disapproval.

"iPhone 20, right? Hell of a field of view." Kurata asked.

"20S. Regular version was too big for me." I simply stated.

"What use is a phone over here anyway?" Loke spited. "Not like we get any reception."

Itami grumbled. "Tell me about it."

"Missing out on your shows, Youji?" I asked, a dead body with rolling over distance of my foot, which had happened as I turned over the man. Roman armor, but draped in different fabrics. Probably a soldier of another lord or something. The bullet from the M2 didn't seem to care, given the giant hole in his chest.

Surprisingly Loke had taken out a video camera, a small little block of a 4k recording piece of technology, and attached it to her woodland helmet.

"The hell?" Masterson said.

"Me and the squad were talking before Zero Hour and we bought a box of these: there's one for each of us, you know."

"Why?" I asked, having reached the ground on my knees, and putting my finger tips on the cold metal, a vulture having broken from the pack and come my way, ignoring me as I saw the man's helmet tossed aside and his body dragged away by the large bird.

"Well, sir, seeing as there are no reporters with us, or anyone speaking for us boots on the ground, we figured it'd be a good idea to have something able to speak for us in the future… you know, just in case." she said, quietly, tossing two camera our way.

Itami and Kurata nodded in approval with her unsaid reasoning.

Masterson had attached his to one of his chest straps, thumbing down the perpetual recording switch, I doing the same on my shoulder like a parrot.

"Powered by solar, heat, and any motions you guys make. Should last us easily an entire year… plus, it's streaming the recordings back to Bannon's laptop."

"Overlord know about this?" I asked.

"Don't think he needs to be alerted." she said, unphased. I agreed in an audible 'yep'.

The Marines out on defense positions these last few nights, in between all the further counter attacks, they'd been a little too happy to be on their positions. After the first night I had my own reservations coming up regarding the 7th MEU and their persistence of calling these people "Hadjis".

The world had been a peaceful place, but perhaps, only, because America's presence in the Middle East had been so outright. A decade ago America did what it needed to be done, and the Marines had been that instrument in the Middle East for us all.

Perhaps that was the reason I chose the Army Rangers versus the Force Recon.

Itami had gazed out at the carnage again, and our gazes, our recordings had followed. The flock of vulture like creatures, the end of life. Wherever we went, we damned this Earth to black and scorch.

"120,000." he said again, motioning to his sergeant. "What kind of nation are we fighting that can afford to send that many people to death in less than a week?"

"One with the people to spare." Loke had said, and I had nodded in agreement. According to the JSDF scouts they had seen some runners, so at least whoever this was, this Empire, as we had been slowly discovering, would have to had known about us at the very least. Whoever was the military command equivalent had done this willingly.

The prisoners we had been slowly seizing, and indeed, one of my Ranger fireteam's had picked up a few living, were useful to us. Given our modern treatment of them, as outlined by the Geneva convention, they had been more than happy usually to spill the beans regarding their language, their people, their world.

No one had minded that we were using the old sites of Japanese, World War Two era prison camps, but it was bounds better than what these literal peasants had been used to. Of course there were, somehow, below the expectations of the more aristocratic, the rulers and politicians that were supposed to come with invasion forces. Wasn't enough though, no better than how we initially studied the Middle East in the first decade of the twenty first century.

The fact we were taking on an Empire, both in name and in makeup, was a bit deafening. The population of the Roman Empire had been shy of sixty million in our history, and if the same number was to be believed here…

Needless to say that it wouldn't have been a problem if I was Chinese.

"To think… what if the Chinese had gotten their way and we had to turn over the Gate and this Special Task Force to the international community?" Masterson had wondered regarding the international situation outside.

"Well if the Chinese went in, I'm sure we'd be seeing Willie Pete used during this… I don't know." I just muttered.

"Willie Pete?" Kurata was unfamiliar with most of the American terms that Masterson had been throwing around as well as the NATO monikers. He was a young man, maybe a bit unknowing, given the situation.

"White Phosphorus." I said.

"Like in the grenades?" Smoke grenades, Kurata had assumed.

"Like in the burning Vietnamese in 1968." Masterson had corrected. He couldn't really blame the man though. Japan didn't even have such weapons in inventory.

We did.

UN had been making sure any of the tactical weapons from Okinawa or back in the States hadn't moved one bit though.

Not that I was wishing for them. Conventional firepower worked for now. Hell, it was more than "just working".

Radio buzzed and I took it, holding two fingers to the receiver in my ear. "Hitman-Actual. Go ahead."

"This is Hitman 1-1. We've cleared the perimeter and Force Recon is making their way back now. 5th Division wants to talk with us, including Itami. Over."

Itami heard his name over the radio, switching onto my frequency to listen in.

"Hitman-Actual. Interrogative: What for Bannon?"

"Don't know. Over."

"…Alright. Tell them me and Itami are ten mikes out."

Wordlessly we had all nodded with each other. There was nothing more to do out here but to blow at the breeze.

"RTB. Cam, you're with me. Itami, lead the way." Itami had been fully aware that he had now outranked me, but he saw me as the senior, even if he had years and rank on me. I was more of a soldier, in his eyes.

He had shrugged though, starting his way back to the FOB.

"I don't know how you do it, Kay, but I don't enjoy having command."

I cupped the bottom of my face as I store up into that too blue sky, giving him a contemplated answer. "Having command is not about yourself, Itami. It's about the men and women you lead and making sure they're okay at the end of the day. They become your motivation, and you become their guiding light."

"Nice snake oil talk." Cam had tease, Loke giggling.

I had only taken out my E-Cigar, and put it between my lips, taking one drag as I blew out a response and smoke. "Well, either way you learn."

* * *

Emerson had turned off one of his few vices before he had gotten inside the JSDF's Fifth Division many operational tents in the FOB, the JSDF force that had come over through the Gate having been from the Fifth Division, obviously.

"Didn't know you smoked, Kay." Itami had commentated, arms behind his back as they waited for the officer in charge. Emerson's squad leads had been on either side of them, vigilant and waiting to take on the same orders as their lieutenant. Rest of the men were having breakfast and testing out those new cameras that Loke had set them up with. Hitman had been hiding them underneath a magazine cover at the moment. If there was any flak taken for it Emerson would've taken responsibility with no problem, but the prolonging of their recording adventure in this world was something he made a note of, us having all decided to keep it on the down low.

Vanilla nicotine liquid and the cigar itself, a brown paper lookalike of an actual Cuban, was in where Emerson kept his pens on his kit.

"Started three months ago."

Itami knew why then, Masterson and Bannon at attention, their faces equal in seriousness. As iffy as Masterson was as a person, given his circumstances growing up, the man had been a soldier equal to the more serious Bannon. Two sides of the same coin of how people dealt with war.

Assuming that this was a war, of course.

This was only an operation officially, and this Empire, nor the governments of Earth, had declared war at all.

Both sides fought like it had been though.

The major on duty had made his way to his desk from one corner of the busy tent, the fastest way to send communications from here back to Tokyo had been Morse code; the tent being lousy with tapping.

The soldiers rendered salute as the tired man sat down, ignoring the Americans entirely.

"Listen up Itami!" Drama, Emerson had immediately recognized, glad he had gotten a hit of nicotine into his system. "For such an irresponsible guy to have been praised by the Minister of Defense for his actions during the Battle of Ginza and given a promotion…!

Itami dazed out as the major gave the man shit, going on about how this man had been an S and a Ranger despite everything.

"So I have decided to get you off your lazy ass and send you out on a survey!"

Itami had sprung into his usual ass kissing mode, as he had so described to Emerson during the nights he and him had gone out on the town. They were friends now, if not anything else.

"A survey? Major Higaki, well I think that's a nice idea."

"Oh no, Itami, you're not weaseling your way out of this one. You're going! As for you!" The major had put the same tone behind his voice as his finger came to the Americans.

Emerson had tightened his jaw, his two sergeants having their faces twitch in contempt for a brief second, making the major rethink his tone.

They weren't his soldiers.

"I mean… 2nd lieutenant."

"Yes, major?"

"I'm hesitant to ask the same of the Marines on base. Thus, I'm coming to you, and giving you the same orders alone."

Emerson tilted his head. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You're neither Marines or JSDF, and even though you've been told to answer to Colonel Pierce specifically, I've been told, and you have understood, that Hitman Squad has a certain degree of freedom that no other unit has here. Given the fact you have no Army commander to report to, you may act on your own accord in some instances."

Godfather, Colonel Andrade, had outlined the very specific conditions that Hitman had been placed under during their tenure past the Gate, and odd it was indeed. It harkened back to the days of the old Colonial Rangers that explored the New England wilderness dealing with Native Americans and collecting actionable intel.

It was a new way of operation for Emerson, but it was, fundamentally, an old one he could fulfill.

The major returned his gaze to the two lieutenants.

"Given the fact our prisoner interrogations have stagnated in terms of useful data, we're sending out six teams for deep recon and intelligence gathering. These teams will be three vehicles deep, and for each of them," the major turned to Emerson. "I request that there be at least two Army Rangers per Recon Team. Itami, you have the reigns over Recon Team Three."

Itami frowned as Bannon got that look in her fiery eyes and Masterson had grinned.

Emerson only furrowed his eyebrows.

"Whenever possible you should try to cooperate and form friendly relationships with any local residents you come across during your recon. Is this understood?"

"Yes sir." the Americans answered.

" _Hai."_ Itami had been less than enthusiastic.

"You'll be deploying after lunch. I'll clear the details with Overlord when you guys are off."

"What're the Marines going to be doing in the meanwhile?" Emerson asked with concern.

"We'll be assigning them with the JSDF to fortify this base and to expand our usable territory. They've been feisty to get out, but that's what I'm afraid of. Is that all, 2nd lieutenant?"

"Yes sir."

The four soldiers had left, Masterson putting an arm over both Itami and Bannon, Bannon reflexively leaning her head into her compatriot in Squad 2.

"Come on Itami, it's going to be fun." The cowboy had urged.

Itami growled as we had split off to go to our tents. "I guess it'll be a learning experience."

* * *

Even after Itami had left and Hitman's giant shared tent was entered, the place searing from the lack of any real open air flowing through, Masterson had kept his arm over Bannon.

She didn't protest, Emerson had noticed, even all the way down to a couch a friend of one of Hitman's elements had somehow smuggled through on one of the logistics trucks in the supplementary waves from Tokyo.

Fraternization was still officially frowned upon, and still pretty discouraged, but Masterson had been a rather electric man in terms to his personal relationships through Hitman. That and apparently he and Bannon had known each other prior to signing up. They stayed and mulled over the decision to join the military in the same motel for a week.

They had that bond of taking that decision together, as much as Masterson had tried to remind her every time he had gotten on her nerves.

"I'm taking you two out. You know that, right?" Emerson had said as he had called the attention of all twenty Hitmen, just in front of the tent's entrance. The room that each man and woman was afforded in there hadn't been much different than the size of a coffin and then some, but it had only served to remind them they had been deployed. For many, the first time in their lives.

The two of them had silently nodded as they got back up and separated, going on either side of Emerson again like chess pieces.

Apparently the elements of Hitmen had been busy trying to jury rig an entertainment system in the back via a projector on a phone, the tent wall, Bannon's laptop, and the footage that they had been collecting ever since the first seconds of deployment. How Emerson had been kept out of the loop he had wondered, but he still kept his rolling anyway.

"Hitman!" Emerson had finally addressed his squad, no less bothered by the expedition than a short job. He held up two fingers. "Two things. One: Is that what you're calling the footage?"

Private Black had been a noted stenciler and an artist, and so Emerson recognized his handiwork as the footage had been stopped on the "title screen". It had read this:

 _ **GATE: We Fought There**_

 _ **By: Hitman Squad**_

 _the self-filmed documentary of the_ _ **sexiest**_ _special forces unit across two worlds_

"Hey sir, Sergeant Bannon said we could use the video editing software on her computer. We all sat down and said: "Hey, let's make a documentary of how we invaded the Empire."" Harris had said. Given the man's near six foot eight form his footage had been the clearest, given his height and where he had put his camera: on his helmet like a good bit of Hitman.

Emerson shook his head, not exactly disagreeing. "You guys better sell that shit to HBO or something when we get out. And you better give us all a cut."

"It's what we're planning." Nutt shrugged, the man having kept a rough outline of what footage we had collected in his notes. Man wanted to be a teacher. How he came out a Ranger no one was quite sure. Still, he always seemed to somehow find school supplies in his living space.

"Change the subtitles too to something that's- Well, whatever. Second thing I have to say: We're being deployed out into the field for a recon mission. So if you want to capture more footage, I think this would be an opportunity."

A quick round of whooping had gone through the camp, the time to finally get feet wet was here.

"All of us together?" Peters had asked, his voice always catching everyone off guard.

"Good catch, corporal. No."

Bannon had taken the reigns of the announcement, it didn't seem to bother the men we were going out together for now. "The JSDF is organizing six recon teams to head out forward of the front and gather intelligence on the indigenous people and, possibly, the Empire. We've been asked to disperse and go among them all now as the US Military's liaison during any possible first contact. Hearts and minds. Any problems with that?"

"No ma'am."

"Good." Emerson followed up. "Me, Masterson, and Bannon will probably head out together with a team, the rest of you should group up based on how comfortable you all are with the Japanese language. Weak with the strong, and thus. Get some cases ready for formal contact and special operations and carry it with you in the provided vehicles. We should be out of here by noon. Any questions?"

"We need to check up with you or the squad leads, sir?" Black had asked.

"You guys are big kids now and we're in a special position in terms of how we're operating here. Call us if you have to, and do what you see fit. Anything else? Nope. Good." Masterson answered back. With that, Hitman had scrambled about the tent closing up any affairs and locking their stuff secure.

"Get my laptop on a charge, Black, and you guys haven't- oh shit." she had palmed her face as she forgot that her laptop was her personal one.

"Don't worry ma'am, the only thing we know more about you now is that your ex-husband is yelling about why you're falling behind on your alimony." Black had said as he connected her laptop to one of the few power outlets provided, away from sight. Bannon twitched toward him, Black ran. "Just being honest ma'aaaaam!"

If it hadn't been for Masterson holding her back Black would've received a slap. She had calmed herself in a breath though, even as she rolled up her sleeves.

Emerson had looked at Bannon expectantly though. It was widely circulated from the brass down that all affairs should've been settled before the deployment.

"You alright, sergeant?"

She had puffed a laugh, almost a bit cruelly. "You know, when I heard that we were going on the other side of this thing: into a new world, I thought it was a blessing from God: that I could get away from my bastard ex. Even now, he still finds away to bug me."

"It's not like we can stay, Lisa." Masterson had said, a sound of genuine care in his voice that purred with his accent.

She grumbled. "It was an old email anyway… and, Hell, they're selling high rise apartments in Baghdad now to Americans. I think this place has something for me after this."

Emerson had, surprisingly, agreed, nodded. "That is if we don't fuck this place up first."

* * *

 _ **The Gate – Omega Point – US Marines CP**_

* * *

" _How fast can you work once we have eyes on the desert? The scouts we sent in two months ago observed it and sent back some tests before they went dark. One of the last thing they ever got to us."_

" _Oi. Well, depends on what support I get and how fast our tanks can get out there. If you want me to drill for the second I detect it, just for sampling take, that ain't possible. It's all or nothin' in the business. You read me mate? You hit a deposit with the gear and we can't plug it up. That and it's at least a thousand klicks out. Then we gotta contend with the fact we ain't got no infrastructure out there to base it off of presumably. You see, Bush was an oilman and understood-"_

" _Irrelevant. But can you at least confirm the presence of it if we get you over there with the proper support and tools?"_

" _Bet your Yank ass I could."_

* * *

 _ **The Gate – Omega Point – Vehicle Staging Area**_

* * *

Bannon and Masterson had gotten the rather large footlocker into the back of the lead vehicle, where we were riding with the Third Recon Team.

Unlike most of our gear, the stuff inside of that steel case had been our action gear and our dress blues, if the need arrived for both.

The action gear had been more of the likes a Ranger was supposed to use in the year 2028, as opposed to M16s, armor, and fatigue that Marines had worn during the year I was born. Hadn't been practical to wear those things 24/7 here, the gear to maintain it wasn't allowed past the Gate yet. With that being said the special ops gear had needed special gear to fix unto itself: Night vision goggles, muscle suits, our MCR rifles, armor, and other special weapons… still, the nostalgic in me had me appreciate the merits of Cold War developed gear and its clunkiness.

"You guys high maintenance?!" Kurata had yelled as he banged on the driver side door, urging us to hurry up.

We had climbed into the back easily enough, the other teams having already shuffled out with little to no trouble.

A Komatsu LAV with armor strong enough to deflect battle rifle rounds, a Type 73 SUV, and a Japanese Humvee copy in that order. That was what had been the chariots that each of the Recon Teams had been given.

As for the actual makeup of RCT3: twelve JSDF grunts.

That would mean a fifteen strong group with me and my two sergeants attached for some good ole quality time.

Itami had been introduced to his team same time we had introduced ourselves to them, Kurata being there to both of their chagrin. He was the lead victor's driver.

One young woman in particular, a particularly Idolmaster, gifted one, had beamed as she learned that she was riding with the other Heroes of Ginza who were principally special forces.

"Sergeant First Class Kuribayashi Shino!" she saluted me and my sergeants with more pomp than she had offered Itami's nervous introduction. Her handshake had been rather rough and nervous itself. Like a fangirl, really.

"Settle down, hun, we're nothing special." Bannon had patted her hand during the shake. Of course she was lying, but for the sake of getting the admiration to stop it was needed, not that Sergeant Kuribayashi would believe it.

"Please, you need to tell me how you guys did it!"

"Did what, sergeant?" Masterson had asked, taking the time to eye the woman up. Bannon had been rather displeased based on the ear pull with that, Kuribayashi didn't notice though.

"Become Army Rangers!"

"I'm sure they'll tell you later, sergeant, to your vehicle." Sergeant Major Kuwahara Soichiro had gotten her away from us long enough for the squad to buckle up and us to get into the lead car.

"I heard a few of them call you Pops, sergeant major. Tolerate it?" Masterson had asked.

"It's who I am, sergeant. I don't mind." The older man had answered. Oldest man in this RCT I believe. Cam had been a ripe 29, as much as he tried to father me around.

"Whatever you say, Pops." he answered, getting in with a cut down 870 shotgun where a pistol should be, an M95 on the floor of the car in front of him as he brought it in.

Bannon had taken a seat next to him, she cradling a bundle of three M72 launchers.

The four JSDF personnel in the lead car, Itami, Pops, Kurata, and the RCT's medic, a woman with an odd hair color by the name of Kurokawa, had gaped as we brought our loads in, the 240Bravo I had sat right next to me like a person being the last of it.

"Good god. You guys got enough?" Kurata had looked in astonishment.

"You see, next time we face an army on our own, we want to be prepared." Masterson had answered. "It fits back here anyway."

It did.

"Sounds a bit like compensation." Kurokawa had raised an eyebrow, a rather motherly look if I had any say, having sat across from the three with Pops and my LMG.

"I don't got to prove nothing." Masterson pouted.

"Enough, Cam." Itami had said, tiredly.

"Yes sir, first lieutenant."

"Shut up, Masterson."

"Yes sir, second lieutenant."

"Go fuck yourself, Cam."

"Not in front of the nice people from the JSDF, Htiman 1-1."

Kurokawa had shot me a look across the aisle as Masterson had been a complete show and put on a cowboy hat he had somehow hidden in his pack.

"You know, Commander Hazawa told us to keep an open mind with all of you Americans, Lieutenant Emerson... I'm finding it hard to do so." She said, her tone all so sweet and deceiving as the cars had started up.

I licked my lips as I put my aviators on, apologizing with a shrug. "I'm sorry, my mentally deficient squad leader here is with me only because me and Sergeant Bannon need to babysit him… that and he's the best shotgunner this side of paradise. I apologize in advance for my token nutcase."

She sighed. "Understood, lieutenant. Just to let you know if he gets hurt and I need to operate, I won't use any of the morphine."

"Please." Bannon agreed.

"Ahah! I like this group." Kurata had barely brought a smile to Itami as the car pulled out, the other vehicles in tow.

Looking left, right, and out the back window. Asides from the fact we only had one MG…

"Yeah. Me too."

* * *

Asides from seeing a Stonehenge looking structure on the way out, Recon Team 3's first trek outside of the bounds of the base had been uneventful, having gone directly forward as far as any other of the teams.

Emerson had been quiet, but Kurata and Masterson had gone together in conversation like bread and butter. The idle silence being filled with the absolute crazy stories of a man let loose when he was ten years old in Texas and a person who had spent the last ten years among the crowds of Otakus.

The rest of the squad digging deep in their Runes to English or Japanese guidebooks distributed in the last few hours before anyone was deployed, courtesy of the more coherent prisoners.

It wasn't at all complete, but it was something.

The recon team had been so engrossed that they hadn't noticed when the entire procession had stopped at the gates of what looked like a Medieval village, the sound of a few surprise yelps picking their heads up.

The entire team had looked at surprise at the driver: Kurata.

"I figured this would be a good place to… how do you Americans say it? Win hearts and minds?"

Emerson and Bannon leaned their heads to look through the front windshield at the village of wood and board and saw the retreating villagers.

"And did you have to drive right up to the town?" Emerson seemed less than pleased as Itami handled the radio.

"Disembark, but keep your rifles here. These people seemed more scared of us than…. Well, they're scared of us."

"Sorry, Jay Kay." Kurata shrugged.

The sound of RCT3 disembarking had caused those poking out their doors and windows shutting closed and sealing themselves away so that the bad men from another world who had killed the population of an entire city with less than a sweat given would go away.

"Uhrm…" Itami grumbled as the fresh air was on them as they got out. It was a tad hotter than the men and women from Earth had expected, given their bodies had been used to a November that it was supposed to be to them. "Alright, the least intimidating people stack up on the walls… everyone else… hide in the bushes, I guess."

Bannon had dragged Masterson into a bush with most of the squad over thirty, Bannon herself going up with Kurokawa, Emerson, Kurata, and Kuwahara.

Masterson had wanted to say something, but given the fact he was a Texan and currently wearing his cowboy hat, it would've been bad in his mind.

Kurokawa had leaned to peer inside the village from this gate: the translation saying "Coda Village".

The bow in her hair had been the cutest thing within the entire squadron to necessitate her leaning in, she spotting a young girl about the age of her niece, the fear in her eye compounded by the fact that that girl's mother had been about to drag herself into the house before she caught a look at who was waving to her child.

A woman, the mother had discovered, wearing combat armor. It was weird to the mother, but the hostility was somewhat alleviated as she smiled and went into the open, showing no trouble.

That was immediately ruined when Emerson tried the same with a smile.

* * *

Emerson had been sore enough that the man was sulking, arms crossed in his seat after they made friendly relations with a village to a rather positive effect after Emerson took off his helmet to reveal his normal ears.

Kurokawa had been as much as a mother that anyone had been, which had especially helped in her MOS as a medic, but she couldn't have really understood what grated against the man as he huffed within himself.

He had belly ached in English, only Masterson and Bannon able to fully understand him in word.

"Can't believe it. First thing people from this world say about me is about the color of my skin."

Masterson had gave a few knuckle taps against his lieutenant's knee. "Hey, Kris, don't worry about it. They were scared of you because they thought you were a Dark Elf, not because you're black."

"Still hurts though, really."

By tone alone Itami had been able to find out that Emerson hadn't been happy. He had compensated, ignoring what it was, but dragging the man out.

"Sky sure is blue." The three Americans and the rest of the JSDF troops had looked out the window as Itami noticed.

"That's what the lack of industrialized society will do to this place, sir, lack of pollution stinking up the Earth."

"Is that so Sergeant Masterson?"

"You bet your ass." the man had switched back to Japanese after he saw he had somewhat alleviated the tension in his lieutenant's eyes. "See the problem with the white man is that not only do we want to rule the world, but the magnificent progress we make in technology and the heights of our wisdom, it don't go toward treating that world right. Oh no. Not only does the white man rule the world. The white man ruins it."

"So you think the reason why this world is so clean because there's a lack of white people?" Itami had fired back almost immediately. There were definitely whites back in the village. Hell, they looked like Italians, Romans, Anglo-Saxons.

"Just give 'em time, Lieutenant Itami. Hell, just give us time… It's our definite fate, compadre."

For the first time without being prompted, the sergeant major with us had spoken up. "Don't you worry, we'll try to save the people here if the fates fail you."

"Well, that's the thing with death and destruction. _**No one ever intends to hurt anyone.**_ "

Masterson had known the cycle, and it was the warning he had given. Beware, perhaps, not the Americans, us. But beware those who acted upon the principles of Americans in a land where they had no right to do so. He was wise beyond his years, not that his sarcastic and wisecracking mouth had lead anyone to believe that.

An empire can only be as big as its borders. Anything more and the risk of downfall sinks into that society.

Masterson had ended the conversation on that note.

Kurata had picked it back up with stride. "It sure is a different world." Lands of wide green plains, hills, trees and untouched purity. "Reminds me of the parks in Hokkaido… but with, I don't know…"

RCT3 bumped over a bridge, thankfully wide enough to support the vehicles over a stream.

"Like what, pray tell, Kurata?" Emerson asked.

"I imagined dragons and faeries flying around… Everyone we've run into so far had been human, except for maybe you."

Emerson flinched at the mayor's comment retold by Kurata.

"What a bummer." the younger Otaku of the bunch relented into his seat.

They were heading toward a forest said mayor had informed RCT3 to check out, another note on the map that had been generated on the limited range UAVs.

"You really wanted to see some cat-eared girls, huh?" Itami had chided.

"A cat girl, a voluptuous sorcerer, whatever." Kurata shrugged. "What about you commander… and you, Lieutenant Emerson?"

"Huh?" Emerson had grunted as Bannon and Masterson shared a chuckle.

"Me?" Itami had been ready. "Magical girls, I guess."

Kurata had took his eyes off the road to his commander. "Really? And you, Emerson?"

"I keep telling you sergeant, I ain't a part of your crowd."

"Alright, fine, what kind of women you into then?" Kurata had asked as he inadvertently put the man into a vice between the medic and Bannon. They looked at him expectantly.

"Please don't make me answer that, Youji." Emerson begged.

"Sergeant." he had kept Emerson safe by scolding his driver. "… and, I love Emyu from Mei Com."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll kill you if you badmouth my waifu."

Bannon had almost laughed her silence off in a puff, she having jumped in her seat.

"Oh but, I… and Jay Kay, can sing the Mei Com opening."

"What?!"

 _"Jesus Christ Youji!"_

* * *

As the sunset of this world had come over, we had been wondering why the Japanese didn't spring for the Leopard 2 copies to bring over here just so the Japanese had an equal for the M1A1s, and also why the personnel gear had been old issue when they weren't being compared to our Iraq War kits.

The answer, from Itami's educated guess, was that they couldn't afford to operate the Type-10s here.

As for the Type-64 rifles, he had reckoned they were disposable in case of a retreat.

I disagreed. "If we have to leave anything behind, I'd rather destroy it. If this Empire even gets a copy of any sort of any firearm…" What was left unsaid was that it'd be a Vietnam, an Afghanistan, all over.

And America had lost those wars.

"We understand, lieutenant." Itami reassured me.

Pops had guided Kurata with the map we had been slowly marking up and developing, leading us to a stream that he had recommended to follow. We would want to take camp in front of this forest for the night instead of rolling through.

"If we go into the forest now, it'll be dark soon. Don't want to risk going in without knowing what's in there… or running over any locals. That's not what the Defense Force does. It'd be counter intuitive from our task now as a recon team." Itami had said against the questioning Kurata.

I would've said something, but I peered out to the sky that was getting to red for a sunset ahead, and I saw what Kurata did, shutting his usually talkative mouth.

"What the?" Pops had moved forward in the aisle, leaning between Itami and the driver.

"What's going on?" Bannon had waken up from her daze against Masterson's shoulder.

I had answered. "Fire."

Masterson had gotten Bannon off of him, reaching for his M95 as the vehicles had stopped before the ridge in front of the forest, the infantry disembarking fast, I taking the 240Bravo and shouldering it.

Us Rangers had been the first on the ridge as the JSDF got their weapons in order, the gun on the LAV's turret being locked back.

I had held down Masterson's shoulder as he took in a breath and stared down range with the M95.

"Contact direct due west… D-specimen."

Bannon had shouted the report back to Itami as the squad scrambled for their binos, looking out across the great blaze.

"You know what, Masterson," Itami had declared as we saw what we all saw. "If the white man brings destruction, then the Japanese bring giant monsters. We're destined to fight them, after all."


	5. 1-2: The Sound of Thunder

A/N: Express shout outs:

-Rear Mirrors, thanks for correcting me regarding the Gurkhas/Gorkhas. Fixed that up with a single letter change. Also regarding China...

Well, I'm gonna roll with the "China must move half its population to the Gate" thing and try to build/modify the Chinese interests off that, because yes, your points regarding where China needs to get its resources is valid. As for the labor issue and PMCs... well, I don't really follow. If the Chinese have interests in a foreign land, then they're more likely to kickback on those foreign government to fight on behalf of the Chinese instead of sending mercenaries or having direct involvement, because the fact is if China sends a PMC or an official military force, it doesn't matter, it's still on China's call.

Anyway, general notes:

The Battle of Italica will be different, as will the fire dragon take down as you will see. Instead of just RCT3 heading over there to trade and establish relations, I'll be deploying both RCT3 and Hitman in their entirety, and when it comes times for Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore to have his time on the stage as America's ghost in this land, it won't be, well, mainly with the JSDF air cav. It'll be with the only people that can fully recreate that scene: Marines. US Marines. That'll be one of the changes.

By the way: new cover with authentic Gate runes. Guess what it says.

* * *

 ** _Section 1-2_**

* * *

The deployment of the American 7th MEU, and us, for that matter, had been approved by Congress with little political bickering. A bipartisan miracle that we weren't exactly counting on, going forward.

Still, they said we were cleared to do what we needed over here on America's behalf, and if it meant fighting dragons, we didn't mind.

There was always a bunch of talking regarding the fact me and Masterson had taken on and killed a dragon with our bare hands, more or less… still didn't help that the researchers tore off our finger nail in order to fully observe the material we had gushed up.

My hands had been through enough abuse these last few months, between burning on red hot barrels, being stabbed by glass, shrapnel, and other things that came with being a soldier, like rope burns.

"A one headed King Ghidorah." Pops had stated as we looked through that burning forest. Reminded me of Vietnam, in a way, sans the source of the fire as I had stared through my binos, Masterson still on the ground and peering through his .50 BMG sniper rifle.

"You're way too old, Pops." Itami had gotten the reference with the dragon, of Godzilla.

Bannon had went ahead and handed off each an M72 Law onto our shoulders. The use of RPGs and any man portable explosives were sufficient during the Battle of Ginza to take down the overhead dragons, according to a lot of the post-action reports and, in one lucky incident, so had illegal fireworks distributed by the Yakuza that day… granted the dragon or wyvern had swallowed it.

Yakuza had been handy that day, in general. Not that I exactly approved of the organization, but they looked out for their own, the neighborhoods and people they ruled over. They fought the same as me and Masterson did in the some of the neighborhoods the JGSDF wasn't able to get to, and slipped away into the shadows when they did.

"Ain't there some popular videogame in Japan? Monster Hunter or some shit?" Masterson had bellyached as he store right at the dragon, the thing busy burning up the forest. It was a dragon of considerable size, a true to life titan.

Kurata had piped up. "Yeah, your point, Cam?"

"Why can't we just get some of those folks down here and write our ROE against these things… better yet, why don't we make a leaderboard from those game and take like, the top ten percent, give 'em a battlefield commission, and send them out here when-"

"Cam, please just shut the fuck up." I had throated as I stood besides Itami, staring at the destruction and its progressive calamity.

"First Lieutenant Itami, Second Lieutenant Emerson." We were being addressed and we turned from our observation to Kuribayashi. Cam had mentioned to me quietly that she was a shortstack, emphasis on stacked, and although I had pinched him at that, didn't exactly leave my thoughts as she came to us.

What a woman to be in the JSDF and apparently what a woman to ascend to my level, Itami's level, unknowingly.

"Recommended course of action?" she asked.

I gave a look over to Itami as I stared back over the forest, the heat even reaching all the way out to this ridge.

"Kuribayashi… you think it's that dragon's mission statement to just go around burning forests for no reason?" he asked, maybe a bit slyly.

She rolled her eyes. "If you understand dragons so well, why don't we go confirm that."

"Kuribayashi-chan," I glanced at him as he used the honorific. First I heard from him. "If I go alone, I'll be scared. Won't you come along?" Couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

"Uhrm… I don't wanna."

"I suppose no one wants to… but…" Itami had rolled his sentence over to me with a grunt. Masterson had spoken up first.

"D-specimen is currently egressing from the area. Suggest I taking a pot shot."

The dragon had been flying away, much faster than perhaps even a helicopter, vacating the area enough for Bannon to let go of her own M72 and send it over her back.

"Suggested course of action denied." I said, rolling over to a serious suggestion. "We'll find some place to hole the cars up for the night, and then we go over to Ground Zero and see what that thing was attacking. You okay with that, Lieutenant Itami?"

"Fine suggestion, Lieutenant Emerson."

* * *

Normally keeping watch at night would necessitate a 25% or a 50% watch. A percentage of the team would take watch at night while the other portion slept their heads.

We had chalked it up to only one man tonight, so it being a whopping 6% watch.

I had taken over from the LAV's gunner for a watch, leaving me to sit on the turret ring, blowing smoke as I saw a beautiful night sky above with a blue moon.

My nerves had been calm enough that one of the JSDF personnel had creeped up on me and sat beside me on the turret.

"Smoking is bad, Lieutenant Emerson." It was Kurokawa.

"Good…" I looked at my watch, zero dark thirty, adjusted for this Special Region's time. It had seemed to be 24 hours all the same in terms of a span of a day. "Evening, I guess, Sergeant Kurokawa."

"Good evening, lieutenant."

She had immediately put herself on the opposite side of the turret ring and sat, her head back and up at the stars, her long, black flowing hair that seemed purple at times was the same color of the unpolluted night sky.

"Look, I'll try to cut this crap out after we're done with this deployment… But I kinda need it right now."

"It's okay, lieutenant." she said, understandingly.

"Shouldn't you be getting some shut eye?" I said after a drag, making sure to blow behind me as opposed to in front of me.

"I'll be fine, lieutenant."

"Mmhmm." So we sat there, looking up at that night sky and all the unexplored vastness of another universe… or maybe the Gate had just been a portal to another world in our own vast existence, some far away point in the infinite vastness of space. Certainly kept us looking up and away.

The Gate hadn't confirmed we were alone in the universe, nor said that we weren't, but there was something to it that riled people up all the same.

Kurokawa licked her lips. "One of my teachers was an American veteran of Afghanistan, lieutenant."

All of the Vietnam veterans were dead by now, the Gulf War, Panama, they were slowly following their comrades in arms into the dark.

"Old man."

"Yeah… he told me one thing, he learned as a soldier, during these nights."

"Yeah? What was that?"

A lesson delivered from soldier, to soldier, to soldier. As it should've been:

"We all live under the same stars. Therefore, we should not show malice, we should not see ourselves different than those we fight against. Nothing personal."

"These aren't, the same stars though." I said.

"Please don't miss the point, lieutenant." I nearly did, so closely, wincing as I took another drag.

"Yeah. I understand."

"For several hundred years, you Americans have been going around, back in our world, killing, changing, molding the world so desperately in your image, you forgot to shape yourselves first."

Silence. Drag. Blow. The stars above.

"I know… trust me, I know… we know." We, us Rangers, we were taught in a Post-American world. A world where we had climbed back into our quiet slumber, and not as the fighting giant. We tended our own wounds, our own problems, and let the world be… and slowly, just very slowly, we had saw what we had done.

The American psyche hadn't been the same in the last decade.

"I know, you know, lieutenant, I just want to make sure to make that clear in this new world. I care about these people, I don't want your ghosts following us. You Rangers are nice people, I've seen."

I puffed out some smoke from my nose as I remembered about the America I had been part of: I did not know a world before 9/11, a world where America had not been in the Middle East indefinitely, as a punishment for trying to go in there in the first place.

"Thank you, for bringing this up, sergeant… but," she had been in the middle of lowering herself into the LAV for actual bed rest. We were whispering during it all. "I'd worry more about the Marines… and maybe, yourselves. The United States Military is not the main force here, we're just along with the ride. We are not the drivers."

She had given me a considerate nod, pausing, looking at me with a sad look.

The mirror cuts two ways, dear. Every coin has two sides. Every war has its heroes and villains.

"Forgive me, for my retard sergeant, by the way. Seriously."

She gave me a smile with that, the same she used to coax out those children which I had sent scurrying away.

"Oh, Sergeant Masterson is a goo- he's a wise-ish man, he knows exactly about what me and you just talked about. Still, even though I like the way he looks at me, I think his commitments are better focused on someone who needs it and wants it."

"…Bannon?"

"Good night, lieutenant." she winked.

* * *

Itami and Kurata couldn't get any headrest, the trapezoid that the vehicles had made making them rest up directly across from the Americans, the two sergeants having fallen asleep shoulder to shoulder.

They'd been far enough to whisper as Kurata waved an arm toward them.

"Look at that. That's just adorable. How come we can't get any of that in the JSDF?"

"Because fraternization is discouraged, sergeant."

"Yeah, it also is in the US Military."

"Well, technically those two haven't declared anything… I'm not even sure what they are. Kay doesn't even know"

"Declared? Look at that sir! Shoulder to shoulder, head on head! That's pretty declarative!"

"Well if you want to call them out on it, be my guest, now stay still, you're a good pillow."

 _ **"Hey! Get off of me!"**_

* * *

 _ **Three months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 3**_

 _ **The Special Region**_

* * *

The ground didn't sit right with Masterson's feet as he had fanned out with the rest of RCT3, the three Rangers spread out across a ten meter spread as the JSDF followed behind, guns up and ready for an engagement.

Worst, or best, depending on who was asking, was that an Imperial Camp had been in this now burnt to a crisp forest.

Not only was the dirt covered with ash and debris, but it was wet and muddy given the rain that morning.

"This is why I brought that hat." Masterson had proudly admitted as they got to the center of the site: the stone of a well having weathered the fire pretty well.

"Really? I thought you wanted to be the first whiskey-tango son of a bitch on this side of paradise?" Emerson had said as he had flicked the safety on his rifle, throwing up a fist for the squad to halt, then opening up his hand and throwing it both left and right, RCT3 taking off in either direction as Itami pushed forward and took a few men forward, leaving the Rangers to go back and cover the south of this village.

"It was a village, you know. Had a well set up and everything…. Damn ground is still hot." Pops had said over the radio as the Rangers doubled back around and looked through the debris of wood and trees.

The corpses on the ground, and there were corpses, scores of them, had been burnt and chomped in half to unrecognition.

"It'd be a miracle if anything survived… hey, Lieutenant Emerson."

Emerson rose his fingers to his ears and pressed down, his two Rangers pulling apart the sticking out boards of wood to no avail, trying to peer into a collapsed hut.

"Go ahead, Kurata."

"What's a Whiskey-Tango?"

Emerson shot off a look to Masterson to answer it.

"My lieutenant means, Takeo-san, is that I'm _**white trash**_."

"Well that's not nice…"

Masterson had got off the radio and put his hands over his heart, making an "aww" face as he mocked his lieutenant. "Yeah, sir, that's not nice."

"Stow it, sergeant."

Bannon, in her prying away at random boards, had accidently grabbed a charred arm, and in her pulling, she had torn it off with a crack, any blood or bodily fluids left all having drained out and gone to a crisp.

She showed nothing of but save for displaying it to the two other Rangers.

"Hands open." she said as she placed it on the ground, as if it was reaching for something.

Despite how much she hadn't cared, she was a Christian woman, and still had a small silver cross, intermingled with her dog tags in a necklace.

"You know I got a bible, right here." Cam had pulled a small one out of his pack. "Just in case."

Emerson had ignored the show, going to Bannon and digging out the rest of the body: crushed by the home it lived in. So disfigured the three Rangers couldn't tell he from she.

What they could tell was from the ears. Pointed.

First non-human they had seen in the way of civilians and it was dead.

Masterson had hardened up as he went in and dragged the body out like a mannequin, placing it on the ground on their feet, the man used to handling such things.

Thin, ears pointed, blackened skin where it wasn't chipped or concaved.

Emerson had nodded to no one in particular. "Phone it in."

"This is Hitman 1-1 to RCT3."

"Itami here, go ahead sergeant."

"Be advised, this wasn't a human village. I think we got elves."

* * *

Itami had been thumbing his forehead tiredly, waving away the E-Cigar that Emerson was puffing away at as they both leaned on the structurally sound well, the team wrapping up their recon of the village.

The first lieutenant had bit back a swig of water, his newly moistened throat uttering a curse.

"Never gets any easier, does it, Youji?"

"No."

"Sirs." Emerson had stood up as Itami kept sitting, expectantly eying the would be Ranger, Shino. "We've been able to confirm thirty two buildings in this settlement. Twenty eight bodies confirmed. The numbers don't add up... fact of the matter is a lot of them were buried in the rubble."

Itami poked his cheek with his tongue as he took back another drink. "If they were all wiped out… and there were three to a building… That's at least a hundred killed, right?"

"It's tragic, sir." Shino had said, still at attention. The cars had been reclaimed and driven back to us. It was about nigh time to return to Arnus.

"We'll have to report the possible tendencies of this fire breathing dragons then." Itami said. The Rangers silently reconvening with a short salute, ash on their faces and dust on their knuckles.

"Twelve point seven rounds were able to deal with dragons easily enough according to the battle of Ginza… then again those were against smaller dragons than what we observed last night."

"Comparable to an APC then?" Itami asked, looking over at Emerson and Masterson.

"Suppose." Masterson said, he himself having sobered with the death that had been around. These weren't soldiers, they were civilians, he knew when he had to get his head straight. "Well, we got enough heavy weapons on us to do something if that thing, or any other winged Godzilla shows up."

"At this rate, we'll probably have to hunt down where that D-specimen lays its head at night." Bannon had admitted, unsure if she was looking forward to it.

"By that time, hopefully," Itami had gone to throw a water bucket into the well, the Rangers about to head back into the vehicles as Emerson talked. "We'll have the Marine's Harriers and the JSDF Apaches on station… how much you think they got done on the base you think?"

"Well, most Marines end up as constru-"

The sound of a clunk at the bottom of the wheel had stopped the Rangers, as well as Shino and Itami, cold.

Masterson's 870 had been cut down in barrel only, the stock full and against his leg like a brace, a flashlight on it as he had gone forward and poked himself over the edge into the dark, turning on a flashlight for all to see.

The gasp of surprise had been shared across when the beam of light settled on green and living flesh.

Shino had been first to audible, and coherently, respond:

"Medic! Someone get the truck over here!"

* * *

As Itami had descended, Bannon and Masterson had been throwing glow sticks into the well after cracking them on.

"Careful." I said, "Might bonk someone on the head."

They didn't really respond as Itami had gone down via the winch on the lead truck.

RCT3 had gathered around the well in anticipation, Kurokawa having her gloves on as she had awaited with a medical kit.

"Hey, Kuro-san," I had said as Itami had called for Pops to gun it on the car and bring him up. "Think you can treat an elf?"

She shrugged, ribbon still in her hair. "From the cadavers we saw today, I don't think we're too different as far as physiology goes. Guess we'll see."

Itami had just crested the well again, the survivor on his back, the team dragging him up and out with special attention given to this young elf of blonde hair and absolutely cold skin.

As Itami had collapsed on the ground next to the tarp we had laid out for the girl to be set on, Kurokawa had gone straight to work on her diagnosis, going along veins and the girl's head.

Kurata had snapped a picture off with a camera to the ire of the squad. "Yeah? What of it?" He had been rather happy. "If there are elves, there gotta be cat girls."

Shino had been more of a dog as she barked at nearly all of the men, sending them away as Kurokawa started disrobing the girl, the wet clothes very much adding to her condition.

We hadn't been phased, but as she shot a look at us we got the point, me and Masterson turning away as Bannon knelt down to help, we doing the same as we crouched, idle, vigilant.

"Sergeant Bannon, take care of her clothes, if you can."

"Yes ma'am."

"Slight trauma on her forehead… definitely hypothermia. Probably been in there since last night, plus the rain that came in… Shino, could you go get a blanket and a stretcher?"

"Of course."

We hadn't turned, but Kuro's vocal analysis had been enough, her tone going from urgent to calm as Shino had ran off to get the stretcher.

"Doesn't sound too bad, Sergeant Kurokawa."

"Mmm. No, long as we stabilize her body temperature… poor girl." The ripping of a wrapper had led me to believe that a bandage was being applied to her head, a gash probably on it. Wondered how she got that…

Masterson shrugged. "Least she's alive."

"Best we can all hope for."

"I swear to god, Kay, that E-Cig liquid is making you stoic. I don't like it. If you're gonna smoke, make sure it's the real shit."

"Right, I'm sure the base store is selling Cubans right now."

* * *

It was very easy to think of Tracey and his family as we had sat on that well again, Kurokawa having taken the elf to the lead car after relocating our black box of a footlocker onto the side of the car via a few bolts.

Her smile and nod at me had gotten me the answer before Itami had come back from his daze, his boots still wet.

She survived.

Of course, there are more ways to die than just the biological one. For all intents and purposes, I had to write Tracey off as a casualty: a man dead, even if he was still very much living and breathing. He had clutched his wife and daughter's chopped bodies as their blood and ingrained themselves into the tiles of that convention center bathroom. He had to watch them die.

This elf girl, whatever family she had in here…

Kurokawa had respectfully saluted us as Itami came out from his reverie, standing up from the well for the last time, ready to move.

"Sergeant First Class Kurokawa… how is she?" Itami asked, my Rangers had been looking over her in the car as well.

"For now, her temperature has stabilized, and the gash on her forehead is healing without complication. She should be fine but…"

"Something wrong, sergeant?" I asked, already walking past her.

"What do we do with her?"

"Easy, we write her up as a refugee and carry her back to base, right Itami?"

It really was down to her word, and he nodded, though not without explaining.

"Her home was completely leveled, of course."

"I knew you'd both say that."

Itami had cracked a grin. "I'm such a humanitarian, aren't I?"

"Or… perhaps, Commander Itami has such special interests and, due to the antics of Sergeant Kurata and Sergeant Masterson, certain, inappropriate, disrespectful things might come to mind."

Itami hadn't been a man to sweat. I had known, so when I say a drip of sweat come off his forehead with his unbelieving comical face, I had simply dragged him away to the car before he said something stupid, Kuro giggling all the way back.

By the time I had thrown him in the driver seat, our RTO, Shino, had phoned back our path.

This girl had now been in the middle of the idle, all packed up like a baby as Kurokawa had joined me on my side with Pops, Masterson and Bannon uncomfortable with this elf in here.

"How old, you think? AND I'M ASKING OUT OF PURE CURIOSITY FOR THIS GIRL'S WELLBEING." Masterson had said before Bannon tore out his throat.

Pops had grumbled. "Twenty, give or take. Probably."

Kurokawa had checked the girl's pulse with two fingers, eyebrows furrowing as she was unsure of one of the basic facts all medics should've known.

"Lieutenant," she looked at her CO. "What's the normal blood pressure and heart rate of an elf?"

We all had gone back into heads for a guess, but no one answered.

Itami shrugged. "We'll ask Coda Village if they know…"

"Yeah, a hopefully that dragon didn't get there first." Kurata stated.

"Don't jinx it, idiot." Itami responded.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Coda Village**_

* * *

Masterson had wondered as Itami had explained the situation, and suddenly as the village panicked upon the news of an ancient fire dragon running amok, about what the rest of the RCTs were doing.

Itami had calmed down the mayor as suddenly horses and horse drawn carts were being brought to in front of houses, bringing him to the car where the elf girl had been.

Emerson had gruffed with a punt. "The other RCTs are reporting nothing really interesting, found a few other villages and made contact pretty smoothly…. Well, I guess, one team got something interesting."

Bannon looked at Emerson as he cupped the bottom of his face.

"RCT1 with Harris and Black, they got eyes on some survivors from the initial Imperial counter attack to retake Arnus… Didn't engage, but kept observations for a few hours before breaking off. Apparently some of the Imperial Troops fell back on banditry."

"Hmph. Reminds me of the Marines that used to collect AKs for their bringbacks during the Old Wars." Masterson said as the town mayor had gotten to where they were, the back of the truck open revealing the elf girl.

Emerson had raised his hand as Itami tried to talk in this foreign language. "Let me try, lieutenant."

The mayor had looked up at the mistaken Dark Elf again, helmet off this time.

"Girl. Elf. One live. Only live."

The mayor had touched over her forehead gently, no malice in the touch. To him, this was just another person. "This one. This village, take care?"

The mayor had shook his head in the negative. Understanding them had been easier than speaking.

"Their customs are different than humans. You should entrust her to an elven village… and besides, we must leave here."

Itami had chimed back in. "Village – abandon?"

"Indeed unfortunately… a fire dragon which has tasted elven or human flesh, will forever have its appetite unfulfilled for all time."

With that, the mayor had taken off to do as the rest of the village did: to pack up their stuff and go.

Most of the RCT had been within earshot to hear that the town was evacuating, many bothered looks coming over the ranks.

"I doubt this would be a good time to say that there are bandits in the area?" Emerson had said as the village literally devolved into controlled chaos.

Itami had shook his head. "Only serves to justify our next orders. Sergeant Kurokawa, is the elf able to go without dedicated medical treatment for much longer?"

"She should be able to make a full recovery out here, sir." Kurokawa answered, carefully pushing her back into the truck.

"Well, I suppose we all know what we have to do, right?"

The moments of knowing you did right, was few and far between in life, and now was that time as RCT3 all exchanged glances and nods. The Rangers did the same as Bannon cracked her knuckles and Masterson adjusted his cowboy hat in a tip toward Itami.

"Give the word, first lieutenant." Emerson had said as he put his arms behind his back.

* * *

Masterson had been doing his magic with the wagons, given his background the jack for the cars being used with the wooden wagons. Nothing much he could do save strengthen and point out any disastrous defects. Not that he was any better a blacksmith or carpenter than the actual one of the town, who had taken off before anyone had a clue to where he was.

Just because we had come, comparatively, from the wondrous future, the principles of certain machines had stayed the same.

"Sir, I'm scared if I keep getting some of these things to fortify them, I'm gonna get crushed when one of them fails. These carts and wagons are filled with basically an entire god damn town's worth of possessions." We'd been reporting to Itami, everyone had been as he had managed the evacuation. He was good at those, that and he had actually talked like a leader with some bone.

"Just go with the rest of the men and help the elderly and weak pile their stuff on. All you need to do from here on, nice job with what you did."

"Sir!" Masterson had gone off as I had been carrying an unconscious body on my back, having throwing this husband onto his family's cart next to his wife. The first punch I had thrown that day and it had been to a man who had been trying to steal from his neighbor in the way of vases and valuables.

Of course it was a punch, then a grab around his neck as I brought him to the ground. A lot of fights had been breaking out, Bannon and me more than happy to let go of some stress when due.

"Another fight up front! Let's go!" Bannon had yelled as I took off with her, dashing ahead and seeing one of RCT3 on the ground on the straight street the evacuation line was going down.

A man had raised what looked like a fishing pull and Bannon had hooked her arms around the man's with little trouble, I getting the JSDF soldier on his feet.

"I'm just trying to help!" he yelled. He had been holding a bronze token the size of one of the wheels. It had considerable weight.

"The hell is going on soldier?" I asked as Bannon had brought the man to the ground, he being put into submission as the onlookers were too busy with their own affairs.

"This guy was trying to load this onto his cart. I didn't think it was a good idea because his thing is about to go!"

The man had been yelling, even as Bannon restrained him.

"That's my ancient family crest! It was returned to me by a travelling salesman!" he yelled. "My fortune will come back one day if I keep holding onto it."

I had taken the crest back from the JSDF soldier, giving it back to him as Bannon had let him go.

"Sorry for the misunderstanding." I grabbed the JSDF soldier's neck and dragged him backwards in the line. "Jesus Fucking Christ, soldier, you took this man's family crest from him just like that?"

"I'm sorry sir! But- but, it sounded like that's a scam anyway and-"

I knocked off my initial tone of anger as I looked at his tag.

"Private Sasagawa. You can take a man's money, take a man's life, take a man's possessions. But never take a man's honor. If that is taken away they'll spend the rest of their life- no, scratch that, their entire bloodline will try to get their honor back. We saw it in Afghanistan, I don't want it to start here. So what if I can bench that guy's honor. He'll find out. Read me?"

The man had stared right back at me with big eyes. "Five by five."

"Oh for fuck's sake! Vegetable robbery!" Bannon had run off to deal with that situation.

Me and the private had gotten to the back of the line, only to be yelled at by an old man and his ass, driving a rather loaded down cart, blue hair girl had been at the reins.

"Sorry."

"We have a collapse up at the lead!" I bolted off toward the front of the line as I heard Masterson's yelling.

"Itami! Talk to the village chief to get us rolling after we clear this up ahead!" I had yelled out into the air, Itami, somewhere, responding in an affirmative as Pops and Kurata got to my six, checking out the scene up front.

"Medic! Medic! I need a medic over here." Kurokawa had been on site already with Masterson as he had cradled a young girl in his arms behind a turned over cart and a dying horse.

She had slid to the girl as she was panting on her knees. "Concussion and possible fractured skull. Lay her down, Cam." she ordered, and the cowboy had reluctantly agreed, taking his shotgun out instead of his M4, looking toward the horse.

"Hey! Get outta here girl, it's dangerous!" Masterton pointed to that same blue girl who had followed me all the way up here, I nearly backhanding her as I turned away from one young girl to another.

She was totally encased in the fact that Kuro had been treating the girl.

"Doctors?" she asked, her voice a quiet, but also perplexed.

The screaming of the horse had brought me and her out of loss of focus. A cart had overturned and its contents spilling out, the horse brought and broke down with it as the family had been caught in the collapse.

Before I had turned my head around I had seen Pops blow away a series of shots into the horse's neck in its rampage, Masterson doing one better and letting the horse put its hooves on the ground, using his shotgun to put the horse's head down, and pulling the trigger.

The sound of splatter had rained and quieted the town as the mystical weapons of the soldiers not of the land Lord's Legion or of the Imperial Army had boomed out for the first time.

Masterson refused to turn around, I immediately having gone to his face: covered with horse blood and grey matter.

I splashed my canteen on his face as I wiped it clean for him.

The horse itself had been missing just about everything from its neck down.

"Face is clean." I told him, he turned around, panting finally as he held his breath.

"Not- not the first time I've done that, ladies and gents." he said raggedly, pumping the shotgun back and letting the one red, hot shell go from the gun to the ground. "Usually it's with something less explosive. Like .22LR or…. or… I need to sit down."

"Right," Itami said quietly. "Bannon! Get Masterson to the vehicle and sit him down and…" The Japanese lieutenant had went over to the frozen blue haired girl, urging her back, even as she could not stop staring at the Rangers, the JSDF soldiers who had caught themselves at the front and stood before it all, I included.

Bannon showed up and led Masterson all the way back to the vehicles in trail position, our medic silently treating the now orphan as best she could as we saw their twisted bodies.

"The fuck are we doing…?" I said beneath my breath as I stood before that overturned cart.

"We're pushing the bodies and the cart out of the way," Itami ordered. "Push!"

* * *

My 240Bravo finally found a place to mount itself: our lead truck's covering having retracted back… The marvels of technology letting me place it on the actual roof of the cab as our impromptu convoy went forward, us at the front.

Masterson, after some short alone time, had been back to his usual self, showing the kids that we had allowed to ride with us some magic tricks with a deck of cards he had brought in his kit. Some of the JSDF had been walking at the pace of the convoy, assisting up and down the field when needed.

After Masterson had put down the horse in such a blood way, no fights were had, and the kids had seemed to like Cam as he made the Ace disappear behind some kid's ear.

These people had no place to go, and no Lord to listen to. We killed this town's lord during the counter attack on Arnus, that much had been told to us by Itami. Only place any of these villages that had linked up with us as the word got out there was a dragon amok was deeper into Imperial territory.

Some had to walk the entire way.

"Refugees are the same wherever you go." Itami had said as Kurata bellyached about how long we were going to babysit them for.

"Yeah." I simply followed up.

I remember when the Marines invaded Fallujah again for what felt like the dozenth time. I was barely in High School, and I remember the humanitarian disaster that had come out of our desperate attempt to the last of ISIS: of all those broken and burned people walking into the desert, away from the Hell of Fallujah.

It seemed that we were destined to keep going back into that damn desert, that swallowed armies and men whole.

The right choice is never easy to make. And even then, that choice never worked. Just as it had been for the last twenty years, a blood cycle of terror had circulated through the Middle East as if we had never left, and it kept us there, fated for all time.

"Why'd you burn that cart back there?" Kuro had asked as she looked up from the elf she was still tending. She asked it in seriousity, in pity.

A klick back and an axle had broken on a cart, causing Itami to dismount and confront the desperate family with the town chief.

There was really no way to save it all, so, even as the family cried and refused to go on, the cart was torched and they were forced to go on. It was the same sob story up and down this muddy road. Families being left behind, people getting injured, it was mentally, and physically exhausting.

"They left me with no choice."

Kuro had leaned in to really talk to Itami, his helmet off, a hand tiredly running through his spiky hair.

"Can't we call in any of the other RCTs or even Arnus for support?"

Itami had puffed, seriously considering asking for my cigar. "Kurokawa-chan…First, we're behind enemy lines. The Empire might not give much attention to a bunch of its own refugees, but if they see us and the Rangers here with them…"

"Huh?"

"We're not supposed to engage anyone unless it's within our main force's reach. Accidentals engagements, unplanned expansion of the Task Force's front lines, committing our total forces to their war potential, exposing more cracks in our defenses, getting the civilians in the crossfire…. There's a lot of reasons why we're not calling the other teams in or reinforcements, you understand? It worries me."

"Yeah… I understand." Kuro had retreated from her point.

The elf's head was in between my feet, so when I felt something shift into my muddy soles I had moved carefully.

"She's regaining consciousness, should come to within the hour." Kuro said as I looked down at half lidded eyes looking right back up at me.

Bannon had been out and about helping out still, pushing stuck carts and torching more left behinds, leaving only me, Pops, and Masterson otherwise in this car with Kurata and Itami in terms of official soldiers.

"Yo." I said softly, I not getting and response as I took my shoulder to the 240 again. No use.

"Good." Itami had said.

The 240Bravo had an Elcan sight to it of moderate modification, but as I peered through it and out forward, the flock of crows didn't need any magnification to see.

"Twelve o'clock. Birds. Lots of 'em." I alerted.

Itami raised is binos up.

"Just a gothic Lolita." Man had been tired, and perhaps, so had I to casually glaze over the detail.

Then ten seconds later we had ducked into the cabin to confirm what we just heard from his mouth, immediately looking down range as Kurata yelled very audibly in surprise, slamming the brakes and bringing his own binos up.

The kids had apparently known what that was as Masterson joined me up top with his sniper rifle… as did the running crowds of tired refugees going out front of the car.

"Kids! She's got a big weapon!"

Masterson had tried to yell, but it didn't reach their ears or they didn't care.

"Christ, she looks ten… Maybe she's one of the missing?" I wondered.

In the days following the attack on Ginza, a sizable number of Japanese had disappeared without a trace in Tokyo. It didn't take people long to imagine where they could've possibly gone in the chaos of the Incident.

"Oracle! Oracle!" a few of the kids had yelled.

"Guess not." Itami puffed.

"Well, think about it, Ell-Tee. We came here and we started reigning as gods about thirty minutes after we touch ground… if a rather creative ten year old, armed with modern era knowledge, has three months to do their thing…"

When the natives started bowing as if she was God, Cam had put her thoughts away. Didn't explain the giant axe too.

The kids had answered back and forth her questions, the adults also praising us surprisingly, at least when compared to Imperial troops.

"If I didn't know any better that outfit seems to have a religious importance." Kuro's observations weren't taken as religious observations by Kurata and Itami outright, us two Americans in the back glowering.

She made her way in that black, almost doll like dress toward us, Cam had made a move for his 870 as that giant axe loomed, but I put my arm across him and non verbally told him to cool it. We ain't about to murder kids.

The way she spoke had sounded almost… well, for lack of better words, olden like, what I was able to dissect that of questions and wonders about this metal machine we had called a car.

Kids had explained that it was a comfier ride, to Mitsubishi's benefit.

It was only after that that she had looked at the occupants.

"-want to ride." was the only thing I had caught from her before the door was open and, much to Masterson about to bust a gut, ride Itami on his lap and bumping up and down on the man's crotch.

What was I to do but to give the man his privacy as Kurata yelled he was doing it on purpose, getting out of the car just about done with everything, about two cars away Masterson having collapsed on the ground laughing with me.

" _Oh my GOD_ , Kay, you can't make this shit up. You- you, oh god, you just can't."

Didn't really care if my knee pads got dirty, I had gone on my knees all the same as Masterson rolled around, barely holding back my laughs.

Bannon had found us before the refugees started looking at us even more funnily. They had a slight understanding that we were different from the JSDF, between tan and green, our faces in general.

"Fuck's happening up front?" She had grabbed both of our collars and hauled us up.

" _Just_ -" I struggled to explain as I was on the verge of laughing, the absurdity. First the elf, now a gothic Lolita able to swing around that giant axe. "Long story short we got a ten year old riding Itami's dick very willingly."

 _ **"wHat?!"**_

"Gist of the situation, not literally, but… just go see the lead car before people start praying or some shit."

Bannon had taken off, really locked and loaded, and as I heard the incoherent yelling from downwind me and Masterson rolled on the dirt. Only when we realized our cameras were still on us did we somehow incapacitate ourselves from the situation.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Roche Hill**_

* * *

"So, you're telling me that you're laughing because in your culture it's-"

The red and black girl with pale, dough skin had adjusted to our basic understanding of the basic language pretty well, even as I struggled to keep her serious in my mind as she took a seat, comparing Cam's M95 to her very stylized axe.

I stopped her in her tracks. "No, look, miss, I'm laughing because it was Itami of all people it happened to, because Itami here… he has special tastes."

"So people who appear to be the same age as-"

"No, no, no, no, no!" Itami deflected. "From where we come from, there are… characters that look like you and I take interests in those things."

Masterson had been stomping as he tried to not keep laughing, I simply disengaging from my 240Bravo and leaning on the cab backwards at the easily eighty deep caravan of what had survived.

It was a damn miracle some of the walkers made it this far. Still, over this plateau and, according to some of the leaders, they could've taken it from there.

Itami's frustration was vented as he threw an arm out the window to air out. "God damn, this place can't be much hotter than Japan…"

My sleeves had been popped back as my Rangers had returned to the car, their rifles aimed outside at angles back at the convoy.

I was jealous of Masterson's cowboy hat because of it, it being pretty damn hot.

Had my aviators though, able to look up right at that same old sun with the dragon silhouetted against it.

…

What.

I brought my 240Bravo off its perch as Masterson and Bannon saw the click: of the initiation of combat, they looking up to where my gun pointed as the JSDF personnel had been clued in.

Just soon enough to see that silhouette engulfed by an all too familiar face on the far side of the convoy. The noise of thunder, and I saw, behold, a red beast. It's name, to us, was **_death_**.

 _ **"Contact three o'clock high!"**_

* * *

Emerson's shout had been the straw that broke the camel's back, Itami yelling out.

"Battle stations!"

The car had jerked, only the hold of Bannon on her lieutenant's waist had kept him in the vehicle as the three leading victors had broken off from the front and circled back around the rather small path, the entire convoy speeding up when it could: those with overloaded carts breaking down in the rush.

Those in the back had been liable to be burnt into a crisp as the fire dragon came swooping in like the beast it was, blocking out the sun for some.

"Kids! Little girl! Stay down low!" Itami had shouted to "Rory Mercury" and the children Masterson had forgotten to drop off back at their parents.

Among a lot of things that RCT3 didn't notice, it had been the blue filmed cart blazing past them as if it was a modern car.

No matter.

Pops had roared from his silence as he lay against one of the benches in the car, leveling his rifle as we approached the mammoth.

"Fighting giant monsters is Defense Force tradition! Go, go! You Americans will learn something today!" the older man had said as he kicked Kurata's seat.

"I get it Pops! I get it!"

"It's getting cramped in here Pops!" Masterson and Emerson had something of a chip on their shoulder, given their initial encounter with dragons, even as this one seemed to grow in size to at least the size of a building as they all approached, Itami having pulled the bolt back on his rifle as he fired at it out of the window, getting its attention from the convoy.

They had nothing to fear, perhaps that courage, brought on by first encounter, had clouded their minds.

"Kurata! Slow the car!" Without thinking Kurata did as Emerson went over the side with the black case opened shortly, three cylindrical objects plus a large tube falling on the ground as Bannon and Masterson used the decreased speed to jump out, rolling on the ground, Emerson following shortly as the M72s and M95 followed.

"Pops take the M240!" Was the last thing Emerson had gotten out before the cars had gone away in the cloud of dust, the three Rangers having hit the ground with no problem.

"Carl Gustav ready!" Masterson had yelled as Bannon closed the loading gate of the launcher with a round behind him, that having been the device summoned from their black box of special forces trade tools. An M72 was tossed Bannon's way as the man ran almost impossibly fast, the Rangers following him to put ant amount of distance between them and that giant monster.

Even at two hundred meters away the fire dragon, with only one eye, had saw the three dots of those who dared fall out of the three strange vehicles it had never seen before.

"Good god?! What're those idiots doing?!" Kuro had said as she had fumbled for her rifle in the rumble.

"Don't know! LAV!" Itami had hung out the window in between fire. "Bring the 12.7 up and flank left! Draw its attention."

The armored car had heard its commander, going right as the 12.7 opened up, the shots from all small arms fire sparking off like it had been tank armor. It had still annoyed the dragon all the same as its attention was now split between the two groups of vehicles going to its feet, threatening to get beneath it.

Fire glowed beneath its teeth as Itami dropped a mag and put a new one in, seeing it coming.

"Breath incoming!"

The stream of fire came in a stream about the size of a baseball field, painting itself in a U as the track of the two other cars spun back around, the LAV unable to proceed separately.

Shino's voice had lit up the radio. "Small arms fire ineffective!"

"Shit!" he cursed as the cars had established an orbit run around the beast.

The initial attack had sent the dragon toward them on the plateau, leaving its right side exposed as the Rangers skidded on their heels and dropped onto their stomachs and knees.

"Same thing as last time Kay?!" Masterson yelled as he looked through the optic of the launcher, no way were they missing this. "Thing's huge!"

Emerson locked back the bolt and chambered a new .50 BMG round into the rifle, sighting it up as he almost unhealthily held his breath after running what felt like a hundred meters back further. An M72 launcher had been slid into ready by Bannon, she having taken a knee like Masterson, both of them flanking their LT.

They had neglected to tell Itami what was there plan as they had orbited on the far side of the beast, making it turn and hiding its eyes behind the back of its head.

"God dammit!" The earth was punched before the radio. "Hitman Actual to RCT3! Come in!"

"What the fuck is it Hitman?!" Itami yelled back.

"I need you to complete another rotation and stay at the beast's due east from bearing 138! How copy?!"

 _ **"Nani?!"**_

"Just keep doing what you're doing! We need you _**as bait**_! Out!"

On the other side of the radio the receiver was dropped as a rock was bumped over, the gunfire stopping just for a second. On the ground of the lead vehicle, Rory Mercury was all so sensually laughing in the chaos. There had been something about the three people that dropped out of the car: something about the glint in their eyes and the fire on their tongues. Where they came from, where they were born, they had been dripping with death.

Something else that had turned her on had been the naked elf that had finally woken up, made her way to the front despite the bustle, and took Itami by the shoulders.

 _ **"Ono!"**_ Itami had been taken aback and overwhelmed by several things at the moment, so when someone had disrupted his stream of fire, he hadn't registered it for a second as he looked at this naked young woman elf before him. _**"Yuniryu ono!"**_

The elf had gone face to face with him as she emphasized one of her eyes.

 **"Ono!"**

 **"This was how we killed our first dragon Bannon! Aim for the eyes! The head!** _ **Something near that!**_ **"** Emerson had been ecstatic as the dragon turned around again, the glint of its scope making the beast glance at them for a second before a round of sparks had gone around to what the Rangers were gonna aim for.

The radio buzzed. "Hitman! The eyes! The eyes!"

 _ **"We know!"**_

The dragon had finally turned.

 **"Carl Gustav out!"**

 **"Watch my backblast!"**

The two ingrained, automatic responses from the two soldiers had resounded as the two launchers had blown out their projectiles, the earth shaking beneath them as dust was kicked up, the sight that Emerson had of the dragon's eye through his scope dialed down, he pulling the trigger to the .50 BMG rifle and adding his own booms. Three hundred meters the travel time took no time at all.

The Carl Gustav round had hit first as it punched a hole right through the bare fat of its neck, not exploding to everyone's surprise. It had still hurt like hell as blood started to drip from the injury, its head dipping down and pinching the wound.

The M72 rocket had come next, the movement of the beast having hit one of its horns and causing those spiky formations to bend, break off entirely, and its right ear to come off in a flesh explosion that it did not know where it came from.

"The fuck?!" Masterson looked back. "Aw shit! These are only training rounds!"

"Duds?!" Bannon had yelled as she dropped her spent launcher aside and unlocked another one, planning on sending it down range as the dragon turned its heads toward the Rangers in the distance again.

The M2 browning on the LAV back with Itami, as well as about every other gun being aimed, had focused on the beast's left eye as they made another rotation, it going into meal as the fire was honed and blood was drawn. The beast had taken it as if it was nothing though, despite the fact bullets had been getting inside of its head.

 _ **"Other one! Other one!"**_ the elf yelled something able to be translated at present, knowing why. All so intimately knowing why.

"Got it!" the vehicles made another rotation as the beast, very slowly, walked its way over to the Rangers.

 _ **"Aw shit! Watch my backblast!"**_ Bannon yelled again as she brought the Law to her eyes, firing off center mass, just for the hell of it.

Training rounds were better than nothing, so Masterson had slammed another cylinder into the back of the Carl Gustav, sending it out.

 **"Carl Gustav out** _ **god dammit**_ **!"**

The M72 had hit dead center of the beast's neck this time, the rather small explosion compared to what a Carl Gustav was supposed to do had been able to break the skin and more, the throat supposedly leaking lava or fire, still, the dragon hadn't noticed as it prepared to flap its wings and close the distance so close.

The Carl Gustav round had hit dead center of the beast's forehead, burying itself in it to little effect.

 _ **"FUCKing hell! Reloading!"**_

 _ **"Last rocket!"**_ Bannon had yelled. That one going out without warning, the smoke stream it left landing itself right at the root of the dragon's wings: it having jumped off the ground and coming back down with a pound that made the arid land crack.

The rumble it had made had sent the vehicles a little awry, but not enough for Katsumoto, one of the bigger members on the team, to ready the JSDF production of the Panzerfaust launcher: the beasts head now "eye to eye" with them.

"Gotta check for backblast…" he had nervously rumbled in the heat of the moment, the beasts head not even forty meters away, its eyes shut in pain.

"Just shoot it off _**you retard**_!"

Shino yelling at him had been one thing, the dragon's eyes opening, and head coming out for a snap another.

The driver of the LAV had swerved to avoid, only to stall out itself as it found itself hood to snout with the angry beast.

The M2 and its gunner kept on firing until either two things melted: 1. It melted by fire rate, or 2. It melted by dragon breath.

The Panzerfaust round had missed its mark entirely, but it still hit something: the beast's right arm as the launcher was lost in the rumble and tumble of the ground. In the first good, the arm was obliterated, evaporated, gone in bone and flesh in the sky that rained downed.

Rory cried.

The infantry in the LAV disembarked as the car wouldn't move in time.

Better to die on their feet instead of anything else, trying to draw bead on the monster's one remaining eye.

That would've been the most admirable sight today: of puny soldiers of another world fighting of a gargantuan dragon despite it all. But what really was the most amazing sight had been the airborne jump that Kurata had taken the lead car on: all of its riders screaming of fear or war as they were in Zero G, just for a second.

Seeing this out of its one remaining eye the dragon flattened its head as best it could against the ground, but Rory had gone to the back, dragging her axe along the bottom of the car now that it was airborne. It didn't take much of a flick of her finger to slice the beast's forehead open in a gush of blood that might've been described as a waterfall.

Not enough to cut bone, but good enough ha target for Masterson to load his last round in and aim at it, the beast now two hundred meters out.

 _ **"Come on you fucking plug ugly!"**_

The round went out, and in slow motion, the Rangers watched as that black dot flew from Carl Gustav to Rory's mark: the sparks that usually were replaced by white shrapnel of the skull being hit, the beast crying out.

The lead car had landed with a rough landing, its hood being skidded on before coming to a stop, the passengers immediately disembarking as Pops had shouldered Emerson's 240Bravo, and let it loose as he fell onto the ground due to the sudden weight. Itami and Kurata barrels had been steaming as they reloaded, Kurokawa having broken open that special ops case and taken out an M25 airburst grenade launcher.

Her yells had combined with the bloops from the launcher as she sighted it like a natural, right into the already disabled eye of the dragon.

These was no explosion, only the bubbling of flesh.

"Go back to RCT3! Go! While its down."

"Oscar mike!" Bannon yelled as she gathered the discarded tubes and ran off with her M4, Masterson doing the same with the Carl Gustav as he went with the 870 in one hand.

While all this was happening Rory simply laid on her belly as she stood guard in front of the kids, hands over their ears due to the loudness, but their eyes unable to be closed in the awe of simple human beings doing what no one else on this world could've done in any sort of sanity.

Emerson locked back the bolt again as the dust settled, seeing the exposed skull: the crack that had been leaking clear fluid that was made by Masterson. Without even considering anything he fired the shot again, right of center axis.

The bullet penetrated, making a small simple hole, the dragon's remaining eye lid springing open as it lost control of its mouth and some of its head.

Shino, with all her worth to prove, had gotten the closest to the dragon's one remaining eye, and with one burst of battle rifle rounds into the feral cornea, she had taken three grenades and blessed her stars that she used to play softball.

Holding it for five seconds each, she had thrown up just late enough for the grenades to hit the orange, yellowish cornea.

The beast had closed its eyelid too late, and trapped the grenades in its folds as it exploded.

Dangerously, the beast had gotten off the ground and hauled itself back, the fire kept up on its head and throat as it stumbled back, desperately trying to get control of its head again, turning away revealing one of its wings had been holding on by the anatomical equivalent of a thread; one arm gone as well.

The blood left in its wake would've filled pools as the rate of fire against its wings never stopped, the soft flesh when compared to the rest of the body being opened and peppered like strained plastic wrap.

It had limped away as best it could, to what it had felt a comparative one mile an hour to its usual speed and graces.

This wasn't killing it, no, not outright, but it was torture.

There are fates worse than death.

The great beast had gagged as its tongue would not go back in, half of its face not matching the other half, its great flames now uselessly coming out like slobber from a hole in its neck that was plugged by its one remaining arm and from the side of its mouth.

The smaller explosions, the gunfire, the war cries of men and women not even a percentile of its size. They just not would stop as the elf looked on in naked horror, covering her ears and closing her eyes all the same as her wits returned to her, she having been thrown from the car during its landing to a few feet in front of it.

It was all too much for her.

 **"My father! My father!** _ **My father!**_ **"** she screamed.

Emerson and the Rangers returned to the curved firing line between all of the stopped cars, opening fire all the same as tracers and sparks flew in a horrifying light show, the beast, very slowly, very gradually, becoming a smaller target over the course of ten minutes as it tried desperately to get away, eventually crawling on the ground, leaving blood, burnt rock, and pity in its wake.

Itami didn't need to call for cease fire, some of the men not understanding that their weapons, and they, had run out of ammo as the beast disappeared over a ridge to a great cry. It was with that cry ending, did they all realize they had been roaring a cry just as monstrous.

Silence.

* * *

 _manifest destiny_

 _"The law of harvest is to reap more than you sow. **Sow an act** , and you reap a habit. Sow a habit and you reap a character. Sow a character and **you reap a destiny**."_

 _19th century writer James Allen on the capability of man._

* * *

"Please! Please! Make the monster go away! Please! Save my son!" Emerson had reached out for the peasant lady, one of the last stragglers as the burials for the nine or so that died was about to kick off.

"Your son is alive and well ma'am, can you com-"

She looked up from the shadow of the rock she was hiding behind, her scalp bleeding from how hard she had held it with her hands, her finger nails coated with blood.

It was an hour since the dragon had gone away and she was still cowering.

I reached out to her.

 _ **"NO! No! Please, God!"**_

She tried to scratch my face with those bloody hands, but I had easily avoided it, dragging her up and getting her into a headlock, knocking her out as Masterson looked mortified in the background.

There was not a furrowed eye in the group, in the convoy: witness to what RCT3 had done as the bodies were being collected and buried close by on request from the Chief.

Half the people didn't look at us in the eye for a thousand different reasons, the other half had revered us as gods.

I tossed her over my shoulder as me and Masterson walked. All of our weapons sans our sidearms were empty, even the special ops case had been emptied. The empty weapons, the magic sticks of death as described by the refugees, had gone into the back of the Humvee lookalike.

I personally had straight up embraced Kuro for her quick thinking, however none of RCT3 had been fully coherent, all of us drifting like as we realized we had just not only escaped death itself in dragon form: but we had beat it back to a bloody, fleshy mess.

"We didn't even confirm the kill…" Masterson said as I delivered the unconscious wife to her family, son thankful beyond words as he broke down when we passed.

We went to the hill, RCT3 and Bannon praying on behalf of casualties: about nine carts worth.

Rory had done some special blessing on top of it, and I don't know if the survivors were crying because of tragedy, or because these gods personally praying and blessing the souls of their loved ones and neighbors gone by.

Apparently Rory was an apostle. As in the same type of Jesus Christ's lot.

Then what the fuck were we? Maybe there were fifteen horsemen in this world.

Masterson made the cross on his form, and I simply held a moment of silence before the graves.

I had been so desensitized in those last few hours I didn't even question why purple stars rose from the ground as if by Rory's command, and surrounded us.

In the background: a young girl cried. Her parents were dead.

Itami had went to comfort her with a hand extended.

There was always a young girl, a family lost by tragedy.

That was our reality.

* * *

"Most of the survivors are going to surrounding towns and villages, even though the dragon is killed, in their eyes. They'll hook up with friends and family." Sergeant Tomita had said. Recapping his words with the chief.

"What about those who don't have anyone else? The weak? The injured?" Itami asked, those very people forming around the bent, but not broken vehicles of RCT3.

 _'I'm sorry to be so cold…" he looked at the Three Rangers: a distinct difference between them and the JSDF, even if he didn't know it. 'but we have to take care of our own too. We can't afford to take them on.'_

The mayor's words had made that quagmire in his head, Emerson smoking more than he ever did lately.

 _"We sincerely thank you." It was a sincere thanks from the mayor of the town, he taking off his hat and bowing. Masterson had tipped his own cowboy hat off in return, grabbing his LT's shoulder to remind him of something._

 _Emerson spoke up. "If you can… please, speak the truth about us… we want to save people. Not kill. We want to help as many people as we can."_

 _The mayor's look had gotten emotional. "Of course we will. You've done us more good than the Empire ever did."_

 _With an emotional send off, Shino yelling goodbye the loudest, the convoy they had been protecting that entire day went over the hill and into the dark of an Empire that was the JSDF's enemy._

 _The survivors waved back and thanked them all._

 _Bannon had seen Shino leaking tears from the corner of her eyes._

 _"Honey," she said, "Rangers, don't cry…"_

 _Shino looked distressed._

 _"They weep." And with that Bannon had given her confidence that she so desperately needed, crying._

 _Pops had bumped an elbow into Masterson. "No one ever means to hurt anyone, eh?"_

 _"Man versus man, brother, not man versus monster."_

Twelve remained. Children, a disabled man, an old wizard and his nomad, blue haired disciple, Rory, an old woman, and the Elf: conscious, but a nervous wreck wrapped in a blanket.

"Hey, Kay."

"What Youji?"

"Can I try that cigar?"

"Yeah, sure here." Emerson had gave the man his E-Cigar, but before he could explain how to use it, Itami had taken a drag like it was old hat.

"I quit, three months ago."

"What?"

"So I can get through days like this with some of my breath left." The slow bubbling of the E-Cig had only been interrupted by Kuro's question, the JSDF and the Rangers staring opposite of those left behind.

"What do we do?" she asked, her knuckles bleeding and her shoulder bruised from the recoil of the Ranger's special purpose grenade launcher.

Itami took in all the sadness in his face a blew it out with the smoke, pushing forward, presenting himself to them.

"Don't you worry! Leave it to us to keep you safe from here on in!" he flashed a peace sign, his face a happy one.

The children, the man, the old, they all had cheered and given thanks back.

Rory, she grinned mischievously.

The elf, she had not heard it.

And the magicians, they store on, for once in their life, mystified.

Kuro giggled as Bannon and Masterson leaned on each other, making their way to the still running car, tired, and beaten, but in full spirits.

"Oorah kids!" Masterson yelled.

"Oorah!" they yelled back, as they slumped into their seats.

Itami had been taken aback by the giggling. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Kuro had giggled as I had given them both a back pat, flashing the same peace sign to the left behinds.

"I knew you'd say that." she said.

"Well…. I'm certainly humane, aren't I?... Heh. Alright." Itami had made his first steps, back toward the car. "Come on, we're taking you guys to Arnus. We're going home."


	6. 1-3: The Americans will

With the fact the black box had been open, we saw no need to keep the contents off of our forms as our battered and damaged vehicles slowly limped the entire night home, to Arnus.

Our muscle suits had been developed for Special Forces out of some help from the private sector: clothes meant for disabled veterans revamped and overhauled for active field use: which had meant it had amplified our strength by ten, kept our veins tight if we got shot, and had been pretty bullet resistant all together on top of other qualities I had often forgotten in the battlefield as we had worn them.

They were supposed to be worn underneath regular fatigues, but we didn't walk on ceremony as us three Rangers took the wheel for the night. We were the only ones who could, the refugees, the JSDF soldiers, all beat to hell and tired. Our bodies had looked like they were skinned and buffed up, form fitting in every sense, but they had been a dark grey instead of a fleshy red.

They were never trained for this sort of work… I mean, even we hadn't been, but, we were Special Forces if that had meant anything.

Our night vision goggles had helped us follow the roads, none of our headlights working due to battle damage… nor any of the radios for that matter sans our short range ones.

Masterson had easily used it all the same as we crossed from desert into plains.

"You feel that buzzing from our cams? What is that, Lisa?" he asked in the dark, the man in trail position with the one remaining awake JSDF soldier, he tiredly trying his best to keep the turret operational. It had been melted and bent to beyond any real accuracy however.

Bannon had grunted as she wrestled with a jank wheel. "That means that they're in range to start transferring footage over to my laptop. They got this fancy file throwing thing… something that has to do with constantly bouncing radio waves or some shit, I don't know." she yawned at the end of it.

"Jesus H. Fucking Christ." I said. "We have all that crap on camera?"

* * *

 _ **Three months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 4**_

 _ **The Special Region – Two hours at current speed until RTB**_

* * *

"Yeah, and if anyone checks my laptop, the footage should get home before we do."

"Dandy. Hopefully Hazawa or Overlord doesn't mind that we have this set up."

"I don't know about Cameron's unit, but my team understands that it's for our eyes only." Bannon had hoped to hear the same from Cam.

"Of course. No snitches in my group."

"Good." I said as I find myself beating back a yawn.

The lone drive was silent, almost peaceful, especially compared to the events of the last few hours, suit tightening against my wrists as I twisted and turned. Only things that this suit hadn't been able to touch had been my head and hands.

"Should be home by zero dark." Cam had talked.

Bannon had blew her lips, making a flibbing sound. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Think the other RCTs are back home?"

"Probably." I answered. "We only have enough gas to make it back at this point, doubt that the other teams had much more."

"Gas… We still shipping it through Tokyo to get it here?" Bannon had asked.

Cam had made some biological nosie that equaled him having an honest thought. "!... What if there's oil here! Oh man, I hope to god the Empire ain't sitting on any oil, cause you know how that's gonna go down."

I looked back at a sleeping Kuro, her arms around the Elf. Her eyes had been open wide, but the glint of their sheen visible even in the dark, but she made no noise, more movement. It was the same look Tracey had in his eyes.

 _God damn._

"Democracy, Cameron. Democracy, peace, stability… You know what would happen." I answered, all too knowing.

"You know, there are probably vast deposits here that haven't been touched… just a fact. I mean, not like this Empire had any reason to look for oil, natural gas, and what not. I mean, we didn't think of petrol and what not as useful until very recently, and in a flash it was all gone." Cameron had either been a sarcastic ass or a wise ass. Both of them scared me, but he was my friend above it all.

"Just think about it. Minus these backwards Imperial folks, this world is completely pure like a virgin's in her convent's bedroom in moonlight just waiting to be… Well-"

"We get it, Cam." Bannon stopped him. "We get it."

I had slowed to a stop as we passed by Coda Village. I had an idea.

"What is it, sir?"

"Bannon, I know it's late, but do you remember if we had any movement of Imperials this far in slash out?"

She sighed as she tried to pull a useless piece of data out of her head. "Uhm… nah, after the Arnus attacks everyone fell back quite a bit, we don't have a complete read of any troops movements, but I think I can say this place is safe. Interrogative, Hitman Actual: Why?"

Coda Village had been just as pristine as any other night, completely intact.

"I'll make a note to Overlord this village has been completely vacated. We'll see if we can't get a forward CP or another firebase set up here later on."

I had rolled on forward, the vehicles going on.

"Aw come on, man. Why we gotta help the Gy-reens outs?"

"Because if Pierce or Sevson ever chew my ass out on something, probably the documentary, I want to have something as padding…. Or maybe I just want a place for us to rest our head, you know? I mean, Bannon, I saw how you managed those unruly citizens back there, you could become a mayor, or a Lord, or something starting here."

"Let's just get back to base first, sir. Alright…?" she was beat to hell and so was I, and I couldn't argue as the lights of Arnus were just barely illuminating in the distance.

"What's the SOP again for detecting attacks coming at Arnus, again? Masterson asked me over the radio.

It was something that certainly didn't work in our favor, very much so with the short range radios we had.

"Shit… Bannon, get your flash light out and pull up on one of these hills here, morse code that it's us, if not, we'll see if we can't get these radios out and functional again."

We were maybe just high enough to be generally above the base, a few kilometers away. This was dangerous territory, and I wasn't about to risk losing fourteen of my people to blue on blue from trigger happy marines.

We put our vehicles behind as we looked for any of the scouts that Arnus had put out to detect attacks. They were good enough, and hidden enough, that we didn't see with our tired eyes where they were.

Cars were stopped just short of being revealed, all three of us walking very slowly to the top, our flashlights all within our hands and out.

Arnus had looked like one hell of a Disneylandish fortress from all the way out here: beams of light shooting out in the sky as it defied the dark of night itself… Didn't look like this when we had left.

"God damn Marines work fast… and are Jews apparently." Even in his rather lucid state Masterson hadn't stopped his tongue: his observations very true.

Arnus had turned itself into a fortress of raise walls in the form of, in his observations, the Star of David: each point of the star housing, amazingly, 76mm guns from Japanese naval ships. Asides from that, the entire walls had been riddled with gun ports and machine gun nests: A modern interpretation of, in theory, the greatest design for a defensive fortress responding to medieval attacks. Not one point unable to fired upon across the wall, nowhere to hide.

Buildings had even gone up: the flag of the Marine Corps and the United States of America flying only in one of the points of the shape, the rest JSDF territory, apparently, in the base.

In the background: The excavators and the construction vehicles that were all manned by soldiers (no civilian contractors allowed over yet), had been busy flattening a part of Arnus for an airfield.

"We been gone for only two days and suddenly we got this shit? Looks more like a fortress than an FOB… what are we calling this place again?" Bannon spited.

"Japan has kept the name Arnus, we're calling it Camp Omega… or Camp Omega Point, either or." I answered as I made sure my Maglite worked. "Anyway. Morse code, SOS, go."

And so we had stood as we each synced up our clicking.

No sooner than we had started a spotlight had been thrown the distance over to us and blinded us, only to be followed up by a Marine Corp Little Bird flying over and throwing its own searchlight on us and our tattered vehicles, trailing us all the way home to the sound of gasps and horror:

This was the first time we had been bathed in full, clear light, and as Masterson collapsed out of the LAV, the rest of RCT3 groggily stumbled out into the ground or into the arms of waiting medical personnel. We were all more beat to shit than we realized, it was only when I had known my soldiers were safe had I did the same myself, and found myself being ferried away with Loke and Black carrying my body.

* * *

The Rangers had gone from tent to actual barracks in short order: not too different from the barracks from boot camp, Emerson had noted as he had woken up the following afternoon to his squad all around him like children.

"Doc diagnosed you with severe exhaustion… same with Bannon, Masterson, and most of RCT3… asides from a few scuffs and cuts, you should be fine after a few days." As said Nutt as he had been diligently writing down in his notes.

The footage did get here before RCT3 returned, and what the Rangers saw had been absolutely nothing short of epic: a battle fought between gods and men, David and Goliath, humans versus dragon.

No one from RCT3 had woken up yet from the trek last night, and Bannon had been the first to come to after Emerson, what she waking up to having been him sipping coffee and typing away, word by word on his own issue laptop, the Ranger's post action report of the recon mission as it very much did play by their own eyes on the far wall of the barracks.

The projector had played by every detail, back and forward on command, and the squad had watched it amazed every time as if it was the first time they were seeing it.

Bannon had taken her own cup of joe as the ruckus outside of moving vehicles and PT drills was too much for her, she finding a bucket to spit up in next to Emerson.

"Charmed." Emerson had said as he made one last glance at the lines in the report that guessed the fire dragon's damage: "Right arm missing. Both wings punctured and chewed up by small arms fire. Both eyes catastrophically damaged. Brain trauma… sound about right, Sergeant Bannon?"

Bannon groaned as she pulled a chair up and collapsed her aching body on, some burns on it given the fact her muscle suit was taken off incorrectly by the doctor. "It's exactly what we saw with the footage… not that we're going to show them it."

"Right." Emerson had said, the man having an uncanny ability for Mondays, Mornings, and Mauling of either his enemies or himself. "You alright, sergeant?"

"I'll live."

"Well, we always say that, sergeant, but I know better."

"Well if you really want to know sir, my aunt feels like she's stopping by and I've got burns on my legs and wrists. My right left ear won't stop ringing and I'm hungry as hell."

"…You'll live, sergeant."

"I know, sir…" she groaned as she had patted Emerson's elbow reassuringly, meaning no malice. "Hey, Black! Peters! I just killed a dragon, how come I don't get any special treatment?"

Peters had simply shook his head as he had been fiddling with a guitar on his bunk, still captivated by the footage all the same. Black had been more responsive.

"We're getting to it ma'am, we're just still so impressed by the fact you brought down a beast that big." It wasn't as much mocking as it was just saying it straight. What RCT3 had did yesterday had been amazing, and seeing was believing.

"Uhrggg… just, get me my damn pancakes when you can, private."

"Will do ma'am."

Emerson had returned the pat to his first and foremost squad leader. Bannon had been one hell of a fighter, and although he had seen her and Masterson as equal as a whole, she had kept a level head when compared to whatever screwball shit that Masterson had… that and she was more of a natural leader than the Texan. Enough so that no one dared call her her first name save for Masterson, whom always was the exception in odd ways to her and vice versa.

She was a woman to be respected, in his mind, and perhaps if she had been out in Ginza during that day, she might've saved Tracey and his family, somehow. Maybe.

Emerson had paused as he looked through the pack of paperwork he had already squared away. The last few years had been nothing but paperwork, PowerPoint presentations, with the occasional PT drill for him. He had been more used to office work than anything.

Itami would've been happy the recquisition forms for temporary shelters and some of the essential things was already filled out on his behalf, when he woke up.

"Holy shit… not even a week in and we got an epic scene that would've made god damn Avatar 3 look like a straight to TV movie…" Harris had been astounded as he had been mixing up the scene on Bannon's laptop, as much as he could improve on it. Normally the teams would give enough angles of a particular incident due to the given traits of each camera being attached to a moving body, but the three Rangers with RCT3 had moved as one, more or less. "… lobotomizing that dragon was also a nice touch."

Emerson leaned back as he signed off on one of the last sheets of his post action reports, having woken up a good three hours before anyone else.

Arnus command didn't really have a choice but to set up refugee housing for Itami's team and their load from their recon mission, having been the last one in out of all of them. The others had picked up refugees too, at the insistence of the Americans, and Itami had simply been the straw that broke the camel's back.

The old marine tent city had come host to the fifty strong refugee group now, ever since their move into it last night. RCT3 only returned about six hours later than anyone else, enough so that all the refugees were on the same page, going forward, as they were shoved into rather comfy tents that the Rangers used to call standard living in deployments.

It was the mention of the refugees at all, that kept Emerson frowning, as he looked at his report.

"First the elf, then Coda Village, then this Rory Mercury character… it's only because of that gothic girl we have Marines posted outside their tents with AA12s."

"Well, aren't you suspicious of her? I mean, it's not like she isn't swinging around that axe like it's nothing. .. ontop of the fact she's not exactly letting that thing go."

"Of course I am, but when one of the refugees told me she's some sort of holy servent of the God of War, I'm not gonna try anything."

"Praying to native religions now, are you?"

"Well, it doesn't hurt when he has a representative using their power right in front of us… you saw the way she chopped open that D-specimen's forehead."

"Just say dragon, Ell-Tee," Harris butt in again. "And yeah I saw that… helped you out, didn't she?"

"Yeah, Harris… didn't actually know I penetrated that thing until I saw the reruns and saw how the dragon's right side of its face just went slack or something… I really doubt it's still alive."

"Said the same thing about Osama man… if you don't confirm the kill, it's still alive, for all intents and purposes." The former football player had a point as he had something else on his tongue, criss crossed on his legs as he sat on the floor before the video project so far: having gone back to Bannon's own first encounter with Rory on Itami's lap. "That Rory has a thing, for us Rangers you know… us Americans in particular."

"What's the nature of this observation, Harris?" Bannon asked for me as she put her chin on the table and groaned.

"Just the way she acts all aroused around the Marines that check up on them every few minutes or so. Like we're wearing some really good perfume or something… I don't know."

Loke had gently spoken up. "She… well, she gets very close to finishing herself off, but by the time she starts screaming that loudly one of the JSDF personnel check in and she calms down."

Emerson had raised something of a curious eyebrow, another face of disbelief and of not dealing with it. He had done his report writing for the day and the doctor had said bed rest for him… or at least, rest in general. Still, he had been starting to notice this trend on a much less erotic level: The difference between the Americans and the Japanese.

It was by aura alone, that the refugees had slowly began to notice:

Of how not all the people there in that camp had spoken the same language, the shape and color of their faces, the way that they walked with their magic death sticks, the way they moved.

Say what you want about Americans, but violence is in their blood, and it seeps through their skin, for better or worse.

It wasn't a cultural thing, a political thing, some sort of gross mutation of the human psyche and mind. It was simply an American thing that had been all so intoxicating for the Japanese, some of the JSDF taking after the Marines during drills and such.

"When will it come time to introduce these people to who we actually are? Individually?" Emerson asked aloud. All the Rangers simply shrugged.

"When the people have nowhere else to go, of course." had been Peter's sentence of the day as he stood by the window, looking at across this camp of such militarized structuring, it was almost incredible that there were civilian amenities starting to show up for the sake of the soldiers, run by POGs.

Nutt had been the man on station to keep on the look out for brass, just in case to keep the documentary when it was running secret. He had shouted. "Sevson! Nine o'clock, inbound hot."

The laptop had blanked as the footage was closed and the project scene had cut over to photos of Bannon's original marriage. She had nearly slammed Black again for having chosen those photos to fall back on as they all stood at attention, the Marine major having walked in.

Out of the corner of his eyes he had saw Masterson awake, but he had shut his eyes again to feign his plight.

"Sir!" Emerson had addressed the major as he walked in, half mad, half interested in the stack of papers compiled underneath Emerson's arms.

"Lieutenant Emerson. Hitman." the major had said as everyone threw up a salute. "At ease. Emerson, you have your post-action reports? RCT3 is starting to wake up and I want to collude yours with First Lieutenant Itami's. Somehow word got out that refugees from a terrible conflict fought by the Special Task Force have shown up at Arnus and the fact that around twenty eight of them died before they came to our safety has some of the Japanese blowing steam, along with Congress."

"Are they blaming us for saving as many as we did, sir?" Emerson asked as he handed the report and forms over.

"Yes, no, maybe. It's a developing situation and sooner than later you'll have to face the music and explain what the hell this is about a giant, ancient fire dragon and you using the Japanese as bai-"

Bannon's face paled. "Wait, what?" Emerson had said as he accidently cut off the Marine major.

"You used the Japs as bait, didn't you? During the engagement one of the refugees heard you, Lieutenant Emerson, say that you were using the Japanese as bait to get the kill for yourself."

"Well, context sir."

"It always is… not that I care. Just more pussyfooting really. It's a miracle all of you survived this thing from the sound of it… the fact that so few died as a result was another thing…"

"What're your thoughts on evacuating the civilians into Imperial territory then, if I can ask?"

"You want my official opinion I'll say that it was a noble thing to do and Itami made the call."

"And unofficially sir?"

"We should've grabbed a few of them for interrogation."

"But sir, we have some of them now that'll gladly turn over some information… I mean, we did save them."

"Which is why we're not gonna torture them, unless, that Apostle girl gives us any trouble."

"Glad to hear sir."

"But you're gonna take care of them, all of Hitman will, 2nd Lieutenant."

Hitman had all tilted their heads and shuffled uncomfortably. "What?" Emerson asked.

"You heard me, Ranger, due to the fact that word got around regarding RCT3: "The Dark Elf's Knights and the Men in Green" is what they're calling RCT3 as a whole."

Emerson had groaned. "I thought I made it clear I was human…"

"Well, seeing as you brought down an ancient being of chaos and destruction, some are seeing you as much more. Food for thought, second lieutenant."

"Mmh. Anything else, Major Sevson?"

"No, nothing. Is this your post-action report?"

"Correct. Plus appropriate H&S orders for the logistics regarding the refugees room, board, toiletries, and as such. Not a hundred percent complete, but they should have a place to shit, eat, and shower."

"All in the same place?" Sevson made an uncomfortable joke as he laughed at himself. "I kid, Ranger, I kid."

"Hopefully, sir."

"Hmph. As you were."

The Major walked out as a Marine does: with weight in each step. Hitman had let loose a held breath as Masterson raised his head from his bunk.

"Is the bad man gone now Daddy?"

* * *

"We have zero combat experience and our government despises us. Our air force is based directly on last gen American airframes and our primary attack helicopter is a fucking AH-1 variant. In addition, our Atago class destroyer ARE essentially just a refitted Arleigh Burke. The Aegis missile defense system we use is designed by Americans, and they cross train with us. They literally know every advantage we could possibly have and have a direct counter to it all. In other words, this is the only place in the universe where we have a chance of stepping up on the Americans."

When Itami had woken up he had been immediately put into uniform, thrown in front of his command major, yelled at for taking the refugees back, given responsibility over them, and just barely dodged out of a pile of paperwork if only because Kay had done a good portion for them.

He still spent some time with his shaking hands groggily finishing up the last of them as his day started well into noon, now some patriot having found him taking his first smoke break in three months on top of the JSDF Special Task Force Command Dispatch.

Apparently the store here in Arnus did indeed sell Cubans.

Cigarettes only for him though… at least until this deployment was done. Just like Lieutenant Emerson.

"What do you mean by stepping up on the Americans?"

"Look around you, Itami. This world is unpolluted, untouched by industry, damn near perfect in the fact it has been undeveloped at all. If Japan has access to another planet in terms of resources, one that no one other real claim on it, just think. We could stand apart from America's influence sphere, and even the world's.

"I'm thinking about the people who do have claim on this planet, and I'm thinking about what tenacity it is to even think of trying to get a one step up on the Americans when they've helped us out so-"

"The Americans you fought with on that recon are not the average example: they are Rangers, not Marines. The Marines represent America moreso than its special forces."

"I say they represented something above nationality: the right to life, the fight for one's life. I don't think they cared about those refugee's allegiances when they saved them."

"My, my, Itami, your profile never said for you to argue this much."

Itami wasn't the only one suffering this phenomenon: all courtesy of the Americans.

Someone once said that the United States of America was the only place on Earth where one could truly become one of its people, for example: A man living in Germany all his life moving to France is still colloquially called German, a Turk to England is still a Turk, an Israelite in Palestine is still an Israelite… But if any of those people moved to America, they would, eventually, become Americans.

The infectiousness of the American syndrome is as such.

Manners, actions, thoughts and spoken word, all adopted by those who are not born Americans, but live with them: influenced by them.

"My profile also never said I was a compotent warfighter… I guess things change." Itami shot back as he took a long drag, a bit of bite he had gotten from Emerson whenever he had barked at Masterson.

"Well… Consider my words, Lieutenant, you have a relationship with these refugees, and if you don't use that well… Maybe the Americans will."

The door to the outside was opened with some force, the metal of it banging against the wall it was mounted on.

"Hey. Yanagida. Leave the chap alone, won't you?" It was one of the tank commanders, the British-American one. "I don't need no microphone to know you're trying to convince of something he's not comfortable with."

Yanagida, as the man was called, had walked to the door and considered punching the Brit in the face, but he had his helmet and visor on, fresh from target shelling in the mountains to the rear of Camp Omega.

"Well, same two sides of the coin we're using to play this game, Oilman."

With that, the English sounding man and Itami were left alone, the door being closed.

Itami recognized the man as Warlord 1-3's, Kingdom Come's, commander. Higher than him by two inches, a rather childish smile to his face and glasses, and ginger to boot. "Hey, you're… Wilbur, right?"

"Sergeant Alton Wilbur. Thought you were getting your ass chewed up out here."

"Suppose, sergeant… what brings you to the JSDF dispatch?"

Wilbur had stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged, joining Itami, overlooking the refugee camp. It wasn't at all that bad, but its inhabitants were out of place as they all sat frozen, unknowing what to really do in front of their living areas. No one was supposed to make contact with them, and after their tents were set up and they were taught the miracles of portapotties, they were left alone.

That would change, soon enough.

"Had a chit chat with the American government liaison you got here, talked about the Bears and what not. Still can't get my head around American baseball…"

"Mmm."

"I'm tempted to go back down to my friend and talk to him about these false allegations of anyone of us possibly abusing this world, as well."

"You heard?"

"Man has a voice that travels… at least, to that stairway there."

"… I heard that guy call you an oilman, you know."

"Old job. No bearing on why I'm here Lieutenant Itami… No, only here because I'm a very good tank commander whose tank is currently sitting on its ass in a lazy defensive position… rather shameful."

"I hear you."

"Marines feel the same. They need a mission soon."

"We're lucky that they haven't deployed."

"Lucky in regards to who?"

"Well if the Marines haven't been deployed, the circumstances have not called them yes?"

"'Suppose. Still, they are green, mean, fighting machines."

"… You out here to just blow at the wind too, sergeant?"

"That…" Wilbur had bit gotten a small plastic canister and thumbed out two nicotine pills. "and to personally introduce myself to one of the men of the hour."

"I'm honored… might have to go down there and reintroduce myself though, get them the living supplies and what not."

"Well… you heard the man. Those people trust you and Lieutenant Emerson's people a whole lot more than the marines or the JSDF blokes. If you're gonna use that to your advantage, at least make 'em comfortable, eh?"

Silence. Drag. Blow. Blue sky above.

"I say that's good advice, sergeant. Thanks for getting him off me." Itami stuck out a hand, and Wilbur shook it once.

"Off you go now." And Itami had left after stubbing out his still burning cigarette on the roof. If only he knew of the in between solution between exploiting and benefitting…

"Hmph… Oilman. I was only a surveyor."

* * *

It was a handshake and hug later that Emerson and Itami had reunited in front of the supply depot, twenty Rangers to the twelve of RCT3. The short introductions across the aisle had been leveled by the fact RCT3 had still been worse for wear, but needed to get these supplies dropped off at the refugees Itami, and by corollary them, had been responsible for.

Shino had been as ecstatic as ever seeing the Rangers haul the heavy loads of blankets, quality of life things, and knick knacks such as heaters and coolers, hand sanitizer and bleach.

Hitman Squad had been a very diverse group, all things considered. Man and woman. Pakistani, African American, Caucasian, French, German, Spanish; young, middle age, college graduated, college bound, and barely any education at all: mixes from all over the world that shared two things:

The Ranger Tab, and the fact they were 100% American.

And that was enough for them to fight like tigers.

There was always something in Shino's mind and soul that JUST because she was a woman, she had a chip on her shoulder regarding why she couldn't make it to the JSDF's own Ranger units, but seeing Hitman in its whole form was… inspiring.

"Please! Let me train with you!" Her begging had made Masterson raise an eager eyebrow, the rest of Hitman just raising a normal eyebrow.

Emerson looked at Itami.

"Actually… yeah, if possible, I'd like for RCT3 to train and go on drills with Hitman when possible. According to reports from the RCTs across the board, you Rangers work really well with us." Itami had struggled to say under a bundle of towels.

The training and upkeep drills had been nothing short of Ranger standard: special operations necessitations with the appropriate individual training when needed.

"I'll see if something can be arranged in the training warehouse and the killing floor, but let's keep ourselves focused for now, eh?" Emerson said as he dragged a generator along with a cart, all the way to the refugee camp.

There was an exception to the timid nature of the refugees:

That blue haired girl, whom was a disciple of the old wizard looking man. She had been up front at the gate of the refugee camp, waiting for us, pestering the two Marines that stood guard today, wordlessly.

Emerson had been the first to address her.

 _"Statues?"_ she asked in Japanese, surprisingly.

"Uhm… No. Just Marines."

 _"Marine animal?"_ The Ranger didn't want to misinterpret her question, so he let it be as the rest of the crew had come along into the refugee camp, the refugees recognizing us all and forming groups in front of their tents.

There had been something of a congregational tent at the dozen tent strong camp, more coming to be built based on the open land. Itami pointed at it in regards to Kurokawa. "Mind if you go set up a meal for them with Private Furuta?"

"Hai." she said simply, motioning over to Cameron. He was good with kids… that and, according to one of his stories, he had been used to preparing meals like this in the Texas country during long days out in the field.

Emerson had ordered one of his privates to take hold of the generator, following the three carrying boxes of MREs. Didn't want Masterson alone when he made these refugees first meals. With that, Itami had followed Emerson.

The entire camp had vacated to the congregational area of tables and a water tank, leaving RCT3 and Hitman ample space and time to fully complete the camp's construction.

Furuta had been a chef at a hybrid restaurant of western classics and Japanese traditional dishes, so he had enough time behind the knife to just get to work at a station, getting the vegetable containers open and starting to chop away for a simple soup that would've been dinner later.

In the meantime, a cross between Japanese and American MREs had been in all of their arms as they spread it out on the back table.

Itami had watched as the last of them came, all of them still very thankful for saving them, but not knowing what to do otherwise.

"Please, please, take a seat." Cameron and Emerson had been busy breaking open MREs and getting them heated simply, the brown bags being opened and discarded by the dozen, Kuro dealing with the Japanese MREs on her own.

"Hey, Itami!" Masterson had called out across the tent.

"What Masterson?"

"What do you think these guys want to eat?"

The blue haired girl had understood Masterson's butchered Japanese, taking Itami by a sleeve to get his attention.

 _"Everything."_

Itami furrowed one eyebrow at the rather adorable girl, her skin, though outwardly pristine, seemed weathered. She was a traveler, supposedly.

"You heard her, Cam?"

Emerson had thrown up a thumbs up as he started dropping water into some of the bags, the instant reaction of it being heated up after they were sealed causing awe in everyone, especially the girl, steam coming out the plastic vent hole of the bags.

This, to them, had looked like magic, and the dark man had been a practitioner, as had been one of his men. It stayed them in their seats, save that girl, whose master had been captivated along with everyone else, walking along to Furuta.

"Don't mind if I put asides some chili and beans for myself, Ell-Tee?"

"Not at all Cam." Emerson responded as he had waited for the first batch of maple sausage MREs to get around to heating, working on a batch of beef stew. This food hadn't exactly been healthy to consume every day, but the refugees hadn't eaten at least since yesterday morning, and these MREs had enough nutrition to do something about it as long as they weren't cleared to use all the of the facilities on base.

"You think these people's stomachs will be able to digest this all?"

"How do you mean, Cam?"

"Eh, just saying, this is a touch… I guess better than anything else they've probably ever eaten."

Kuro had pinged in from the other table, her cans of chicken rice slowly coming to ready. "They're human… except, save for Rory and that elf, I don't think we should have a dietary problem unless it is an ethical and religious problem."

The elf had been there, her blonde strands dirty, her body scuffed up coutesy of that fire dragon. Her head wound had healed, more or less, but the damage inside her head had been more. That much who had seen into her eyes, her blank eyes, had seen. She was lost, almost like Tracey. Almost.

She was given a space at a table and given a two seat berth, she sitting alone as Itami very much noticed, trying to drum up some small conversation. Though she looked at him, ears twitching, she made no comment, no noise.

Hadn't even given her name as Itami left her and attended to some of the smaller questions that the refugees were given:

"How do you know how to count so well?"

"Why are you so tall?"

"Are those women forced into service?"

"Do they have other purposes…?"

"Why are your teeth so white?"

"Do we have to pay for this?"

I was taught from a young age. My grandfather was a pretty tall man for our people. Those women joined on their own accord, and no, they have equal duties to us men. I brush my teeth. And no.

And so the questions went, saved only by Kuro sending down fifty cans of heated chicken rice up and down the table. Itami had almost started opening them all up himself, but Kuro had shook her head, sending down a dozen of the can opening instruments.

Although she never said anything, her nod had told Itami that these people needed to learn, not only to open cans, but much more.

Demonstrating once and the refugees were afraid to replicate, thinking it was magic that the steamed rice and chicken broth had been seemingly summoned. It was a magic they had no right playing with.

Once again, the exceptions were the blue haired disciple, along with her mentor and Rory.

Rory had been some object of magic herself. The two others simply practitioners of something any modern man would've still labeled the dark arts.

Emerson had seen the problem as he spread out the electrolyte enhanced water:

"Do it, or you're not eating."

Itami looked surprised at Emerson as he almost barked at them, easily reassuming a friendly face after they started opening up their cans.

Even with the relative hotness of the tins, some of the hungrier refugees had used the cans as a bowl, and as they ingested their first meal of a modern world, the others too scared to even attempt, their eyes had gone wide with a flavor they had tasted before, but not as rich as it had been to them today.

As they held it in their mouths, coveting the flavor as all of the soldiers watched on, somewhat amused, they realized this and this alone: These people, Gods as they might not have been, had eaten like kings.

And so the mess was really put into mess hall.

* * *

After making more than enough helpings for the refugees, and even as they still had slowly ate and enjoyed their food, those who had assisted in feeding them sought it their turn to eat.

The only seats open having been the ones that surrounded the elf girl.

She hadn't even opened her chicken rice, now comparatively cool right next to the bread slices, paper bowl of chili that had put a dozen out of the fight against hunger, and some preserved vegetables.

Itami had sat right next to her as he had opened the can of rice for her, Kuro not minding as she saw the void in her eyes. Masterson and Emerson had looked away sadly for a second before looking at the girl's face, unkindly bent into a face of nothingness. RCT3's resident chef had been still preparing dinner that would be unattended by the military personnel, a giant American southern inspired crock pot, essentially.

If it was a labor given by command, it was a labor of love. Some said that the path to a person's heart is through their stomach. Hearts and minds and the game that is played with food. Such a tasteful thing, all factors considered.

"You've hardly touched your food, sweetie." Kuro's platitude was translated into the common language as best she could, the elf not hearing it even as the tin of rice was put in front of her.

Emerson had put his hand to his forehead and rubbed. It was all too similar, all too familiar.

"It's good food, don't you know?" Masterson had said lowly. "Just look around you. We want to share this meal with you."

In response to nothing, she had very softly shook her head no.

Itami had coughed into his fist as he cleared his throat. "And, we're protecting you, you're safe here, you know."

Emerson had nodded. "Trust me, there's a pretty high probability that dragon is de-"

She cried, coughing up all that held breath as she let out one broken breath and very well hidden tears broke her silence hard. It wasn't a long cry, but a short burst of ten seconds that reminded everyone that she was alive, the sputtering of her desperations untranslatable as the humans scrambled for their books.

To be surrounded by people and be totally isolated, either by not being understood, or pure ignorance, is a cruel thing.

The blue haired girl had touched Itami's shoulder and very quickly, she had summed it all up in one sentence in a Japanese that rivaled the skills of the Americans.

 _ **"That dragon killed my father."**_

She had waited for another few seconds as the elf went on, slamming her fists against the table and making a wreck of her meal. She had gone from sadness, to fury, to raging seething hate that made her grit her teeth together and blow from her nose like a bull.

The blue haired translator had looked at Itami and Emerson dead on, knowing of their command positions.

 _ **"I won't stop until I know it's dead."**_

Itami and Kuro had backed off their seats as they looked at each other, not ancitipating Masterson and Emerson to take each of her hands and hold it within their own.

"Trust me," Masterson had said after they squeezed. They were talking in English. "we know what you're feeling."

* * *

The camp had been completed in a little under two hours, just as the elf had finally started eating and finished her meal, making no notes of its marvelous qualities: simply eating for sustenance.

Itami had stayed with her the entire time, very gradually, very fatherlike and perhaps too soon, easing her into the situation she was in now:

She was a refugee, we were here to help, and we will try to locate the body of that dragon, or the dragon itself, once we are able.

We left him alone with her, to guide her to the refugee group we had gotten to in front of the first newly refurbished tent, as we all congregated opposite of them. I told them all what was the condition of the elf girl.

"Murderous." That had been my simple answer.

"Is she going to be alright, Lieutenant Emerson?" Loke had asked.

"I don't know… anyway, let's just give 'em a tour and get a rollcall, after that it's bed rest for us." I answered back, truly unsure as Itami had held the girl's wrist all the way to the refugees, letting go and walking back toward us.

She had been dressed in a pair of jeans and a spare t-shirt from one of the female Marines who had been willing to sacrifice, her eyes one of constant battle. It was a clear indication of a bipolar case: the way her face twitched between the awe and wonder of us and the anger of the fate of her village.

Shino, given, I wasn't lying to myself, her bust and slim waist, she had the control of a good portion of the refugees who had been a bit backwards in terms of social control, as she had said under her breath during when she got lunch from us.

That being said I had heard and seen a few of the Marines cat calling her and Kuro as well… not that they even attempted with the females in Hitman. Just went to show that confidence some had in the hierarchy of strong versus the weak, the can't and cans.

"Hey! Everyone! Please, we're registering your names!" she yelled out, the refugees came forward just shy of us all. They all came one by one, giving us names that were distinctly Roman.

The old man and his disciple had been a noted interest of the entire group:

"I am Cate el Attestan." he thought he didn't need a title as Shino wrote down the name. They were all talking to Itami as they addressed themselves.

He put a hand on the back of the blue haired girl dressed up in a cream white and blue robes, her item on hand that had been just as curious as Rory's halberd, as it was called, being a staff of considerable workmanship and gem holding.

"This is my second disciple,"

She stepped forward before Cato could finish his words. She said her introduction forwards twice in two languages: English, and Japanese.

"My name is Lelei la Lelena, Cato's second disciple. I hail from a nomadic people and will do my best to aide in our transition from refugee to assistant of the JayEssDeeEff and the Rangers."

We had all been amazed by her words.

I whispered into Itami's ears. "Teach them Japanese first."

Itami nodded as he answered her. "This language, my language, is fine, Miss Lelena. We look forward to you helping us."

She had bowed and led her master aside as more refugees came and gave their names.

The elf had come back again, standing on her own two feet. _**"I am the daughter of Hodoru of Coan forest."**_ She said the first part so viciously it scared us. "My name, is Chuka Luna Marceau."

We nodded at her solemnly, noting her name and standing her aside.

The very last refugee we had hit, was the one that had been the most useful to us against the Dragon, even if she nary lifted much of a finger. We knew her name, but she said it anyway, in full:

"I am Rory Mercury. I serve under Emroy, God of Darkness."

We all blinked at her, dumb founded, despite her status.

"Is the weapon a part of it or…?" Masterson had asked out of line, but it was still useful to know.

"If you try to take it from me, you die."

"We weren't planning on, miss… how old are you, exactly?" I said, Lelei giving me a look of surprise, regret, and probably of farewell.

Very, very slowly, like a catwalk model, she had walked toward us all, her great black weapon on her back, she was quicker than she looked, so when she was within arm range, she had grabbed me, Masterson, and Bannon and brought us down to her level by our collars, face to face with her as the Rangers and RCT3 fumbled over what to do other than watch.

She smelled like rose water, I noticed.

Whatever she smelled from us had made her face blush, her lips quiver, and her arms weak enough to let us all go.

"Oh yes~… Perhaps, we have found Emroy's new servants, when I'm gone."

Masterson had backpedaled away as he fixed his collar. "Respectfully Miss, I don't believe in any gods."

Rory chuckled as she walked off back into the camp. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Every time you fight, you serve him."

The rest of the tour was uneventful.

* * *

Japanese knew how to treat their soldiers. That much Bannon would admit as she had slowly discarded her clothes in the heat of Arnus and slowly dipped herself into the hot tub of Japanese origin and design.

Actual hot tubs meant for deployed troops to relax in.

She had even used it in a good time: no one else there.

No one else there enough for her to slide her headphones in, listen to this fascinating this she had grown to like called J-Pop, and closed her eyes as her body disappeared into the warm nothingness.

It only took her an hour for her to realize a few people had been steadily coming into the tub with her, she reactively covering her breasts before remembering where she was.

With her had been the token three female refugees and Shino, for whatever reason.

All of them had been looking her up and down.

Bannon's ex-husband had, crudely admitted to her during a particularly drunken bout, that someone couldn't have married her for her body. _"Men don't find anything attractive in a woman who has muscles."_ he crudely said, amongst other things.

Prior to her forgetting that the laptop she had given the troops had been a purely personal one, only Emerson had known she had an ex-husband, and for what it was worth, he had said she had a very defined face that fit well with her usual hair style of buzz cutting, and that she was generally attractive.

She had thanked her lieutenant of six months when it was by saying that she had fully trusted the opinion of a man who had never been in a serious relationship. It took her a second time around to thank him for the kind words.

Masterson on the other hand… regardless, he was always a special case in her head. Not that she had expected him to survive all the way up to the Rangers with her… as was the reason for that one night in her motel room. To his credit, Masterson had respected her enough by not trying, or feeding into, something like that again.

She liked him more than they would both admit, and Masterson had been very keen at pointing out things like that across the squad.

She saw the same type of glint in Chuka's eyes as she had caught herself looking at Bannon. She was the only one looking at her in that way, the rest focused on her cuts, scars, injuries, fully displayed on her pale flesh.

"Wow." was all Shino could say as Bannon brought herself back to full consciousness. Between their bodies, well, her's was the more squishy one.

"I'm not jealous, Shino…"

She had faked holding balloons in front of her own chest as Chuka had caught a full sight of Shino's assets and blushing, Shino fully getting it as she sank a bit deeper into the tub.

"They hurt, they really do."

"Awww, Hun… anyway, how are you refugees liking this set up?"

Lelei had shuffled a bit. "It is… nice. But I fear that we cannot provide someth-"

"Stop right there, Miss." Bannon had held up a finger as she strained to get her voice to become whole, and not the raspy it usually was. "You've all been through some tough times, and my Army is fully able to provide you all of this, free of cost. Right Shino?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Cut that out, I'm not an officer, hun."

"Eeep- Sorry."

Lelei had looked between them. "Why are you two soldiers?"

They both knew what she implied.

Bannon had grumbled her throat as she gave another once over to her muscles, the scars, the burns that she had received throughout her years alive. "I am a soldier, because I want to be."

Shino had nodded too as she let her hair down, dipping in and running the hot water through her brunette locks.

"As did I. There is no one stopping us to do so, and we have done our jobs well."

"But, as I see it, are men not-"

"Lelei," Bannon had slowly floated across to her, floating on her back for everyone to see what had become of her body. "I have survived all of this. These scars are some that lesser men have faltered under. Yet I am here, and I am capable." she floated back into a sit.

"Women are just as capable as men?"

Shino had nodded as she got the wash out of her eyes. "You have to be."

And that was all Lelei had wrote as she had sat herself back and realized that these people were different.

"Still, I do worry about how we are to live here and go back out eventually. To repay you, even."

"What did I jus-"

Chuka had spoken up as her body desperately needed the warmth. "It is something of an honor. Repayment, not in material worth mainly, but of our word. We must repay you, or else we would be insulting ourselves. Even if we have to use our bodies as-"

Bannon had shut Chuka up with one finger up, that finger going to fix a ponytail she never really had much experience in dealing with.

"No. We will never accept repayment that way. It is wrong, you understand me? If anyone tries to do that to you or tricks you into doing it, you come to me, alright?"

Chuka had simply fallen silent, nodding.

"Female or not," Rory had been out of her so-called priestess outfit: underneath it all she had just been a girl of dubious age. "You people seem rather spoiled for warfighters."

Rory had made Bannon uncomfortable, and that was same throughout, but sharing a hot tub had been another thing.

"Where we come from… well, this is a very little quality of life things, for us."

"Then soldiers are treated like kings, where you come from?"

"No. Hardly… but let's just say that this is, again, a very small piece of the pie. That Gate you see out there? Beyond that is the world I'm from, and let me tell you…"

"We know nothing about it." Was Leile's prediction. Bannon nodded to confirm it.

That was the answer Rory got, leaving only Shino to make conversation with Bannon as the rest relaxed with this modern marvel of human engineering.

A human work indeed.

"Let me just say you're an inspiration to me, Sergeant Bannon and-"

Bannon shook her head. She was only twenty nine, but most of Hitman now had old souls. She reached her hand out and patted her gently.

"Hun, I appreciate it, and call me Lisa, but if I'm really an inspiration, just shut up, enjoy the soak, and join us for training one of these days, then, you'll hate me."

* * *

Itami, Kurata, Masterson, Emerson, Black, Harris, Peters, and just about every other male in Hitman and RCT3 had filled up three hot tubs side by side while the refugees had dinner, late that day.

The water had turned dirty before a round of self-filtration came, quickly turning into a clean, sterile, butt naked soak between men.

Quality time that still was soured by work.

Itami had blown up one drag of steam into the moisture, no one else wanting in while RCT3 and Hitman was in there. There had otherwise been a whole bunch of smoking in that room enough that, in between the sucking of the air filtration, it had smelled like a smoker's lounge.

Being deployed tended to do that to people, even as Kurata and the men of RCT3 mostly bowed out save for a few experimental puffs that left them hacking into the pools.

How irresponsible, the cigarettes and cigars were, as they would be in hindsight.

War, conflict, and the stress they bring to mind often leaves no choice.

Emerson had taken a drag again. To be fair, this was the type of aid work he was used doing whenever a typhoon or a hurricane came into town: aid work.

It had been rather fulfilling.

"… so that's my deal with Lisa. Any questions?" Masterson's long tale about how he and Bannon had become… something, was rattled off as the men relaxed.

Emerson had spoken out as he looked up at the ceiling. "Officially, I can't do anything until you do something stupid like… I don't know, dramatically take a bullet for her or something out of reason. Unofficially: I don't know… I think it's cool."

"Thanks sir."

Black had raised his cigarette. "To everyone's favorite cowboy squad lead!"

 _"Hoorah!"_

Fists and cigarettes were raised into the air, promptly soaking the tobacco sticks and making Emerson hide his from the water, putting it away.

No more smoking for him this week if he could help it.

"Where is Sergeant Bannon anyway?" Peters said as he had lain in with RCT3, a good lot of them with warm towels over their faces.

Masterson shrugged.

Nutt had spoken up, his tablet in his hand inside of a plastic bag. He was reading something all educated and the like.

"Saw Bannon leading a bunch of the refugees to the skirmish grounds with a few of the girls."

Emerson had remembered what he said to them. "Oh yeah! Itami,"

"What is it, Hitman Actual?" Itami's voice had been slowly descending into leisure, low and happy.

"I gave the refugees the go ahead to harvest any and everything but arms and armor from the graveyard. "

Itami groaned as he covered his eyes with his hands, rising up to a sit. "What for, Kay?"

"Bannon mentioned to me that Chuka was just about ready to start selling herself in order to repay the refugee's debts to us."

"Well shit, I woulda-"

The crack of a towel against Masterson's forehead had stopped him short.

"Seeing as I didn't want that to happen that Lelei girl said that her recon of the graveyard said it would make them filthy stinking rich if they went and picked from it…" Itami looked at Emerson with concern.

"Don't worry, Youji, I've got a few marines circling them in Little Birds providing top cover. Nothing bad should happen… Lelei's a very useful girl you know, she's learning Japanese very fast, and she knows about Japan on the otherside just in name alone.

Itami had grunted tired, he himself no less marked up than Emerson at that point. Sinking back into the hot tub, he simply let it be as the rest of Hitman and RCT3 did so as well.

"No homo." Had been Kurata's last words as silence took it all over.

Masterson had slyly put his arms around the man and another of RCT3.

"No. All homo."

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 9**_

 _ **The Special Region – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega – Vehicle Staging Area**_

* * *

Sergeant Major Freeman had been the main Marine NCO, American Forces being capped at 2,020 for now, the Japanese slowly rising from the 10,000 initially called for. He was a angry man, as befit a Marine responsible for his men, and I haven't heard him yet when he hadn't been yelling an order, giving some sort of moral speech, or just plainly chewing out his men.

Now his voice was turned toward me and Itami on behalf of a dozen bags full of dragon scales later: not one dragon or wyvern out in the graveyard that had been the no man's land for the Empire being unturned and skinned.

Courtesy of Bannon and her party of refugees and my own clearance.

"Holy shit Emerson! To think that we have refugees in our own base gathering these highly firearm resistant scales for their own usage, it's irresponsible! It's callous! And it's-"

"For them, fiscally responsible." I answered with no emotion.

"The dragons were only being used for target practice anyway, I see no harm done." Itami backed up.

The sergeant major in his great goatee and green eyes looked at us, not getting it.

Lelei had reported to me that one of this world's nominal currencies: a Silver Denari, had been able to cover someone's living expenses for a week, more or less.

Each dragon scale had been roughly worth thirteen upwards to twenty Denari, a claw meant for decorative or furniture purposes fetching around thirty. Each bag that they had been using to store them, on scales alone, at least a hundred to one hundred fifty scales. Twelve of them using simple multiplication, a tool that many of the refugees had been hard pressed to understand, had yielded 22440 Denari.

AKA: They were filthy fucking rich. Perhaps Novemeber Rich. Rich enough to go off without us… that is if we let them go. It helped settle them in either way.

Not that the Sergeant Major had understood.

"I hear you're getting these off base, correct?"

"Yes sir."

"Then get out of my sight and do so. Dismissed."

Even if I was the officer, he had yelled at me all the same: these scales had been pretty damned good armor, and if it hadn't been the fact that we were pressing them into circulation and he missed this detail, I doubt we would've just been left with hurt ears due to his yelling.

When I put out the message to dispatch regarding I was leaving, it was a relief to see the Marine command let me go, seeing as they had no control over me, really, just suggestions and asked of orders.

So me and Itami had decided, for the purpose of getting these refugees rich as hell, and for us to establish diplomatic and trade relation with some trading center called Italica, we were gearing up and ready to go out again, RCT3, me and my sergeants, and all of Hitman ready to roll out in a seven vehicle deep recon team. It was still Recon Team 3, but a bit bulkier as the same black special ops boxes were loaded into our vehicles: all open back Humvees with various weapon turret setups.

It was a lot of firepower.

Then again, hadn't American opened up trade relations with Japan by showing off such military power?

History repeats, and here we were, rushing back and forth from the armory as M16s, M249S, M60s, and Mark11s were ferried out besides Type-64s and Panzerfaust copies.

 **"Let's go Rangers let's go!"**

 _ **"Let's go!"**_

 **"Let's go Rangers let's go!"**

 _ **"Let's go!"**_

The Marines over watching us had sung us on as we got ready and loaded for bear, RCT3's vehicles replaced and renewed.

Inside the JSDF truck been our three envoys in this scary new world:

Chuka, Rory, and Lelei. They would lead the way, this time around, as said the old man Cato, who had an old trader friend in Italica.

Masterson had taken his seat in the Humvee, visibly sighing as his butt went right into good ole American upholstery and workmanship.

"This is much more like it… save playing delivery service."

All of Hitman would be deploying, and that was a very deadly fact.

Twenty Rangers. Twelve JSDF soldiers who had been running drills with Rangers.

Quality time.

"You know why we gotta do this Masterson. Hearts and minds."

Peters had grumbled in the back right next to Nutt, Black having the turret again. "Even in another world we are arbiters of capitalism."

Black pulled back the Mark19 hard, loading in the links of grenades like sausage links. "Come on, think of it as raising funds for charity."

Nutt had laughed. "Don't remind me of my Boy Scout days."

The radio had buzzed before I could say something, my helmet on tight and my M16 laying out the window on the frame.

"This is RCT3, how copy Hitman-Actual?" Itami.

"Hitman-Actual here, go ahead."

"Let's blow this joint." Kurata had hijacked the radio.

Masterson had picked up the radio in turn. "You got it my man."

A Little Bird had blown overhead as RCT3's vehicles had started rolling out, the Humvees rolling in their desert block camouflage behind them.

"Now this is what I call a deployment… we're actually outfitted to take on another fiery SOB!" Bannon had almost sounded excited from her vehicle.

"…You know, every time we say that, we get something worse, Bannon." Masterson teased.

I had looked up at the Little Bird and it's pilot had hung out of the cockpit, waiting for my signal to tell him to scurry off. I used my finger to make a swirl in the air and the Marine chopper had waved off, back toward Arnus.

The sky was blue and the grass was green. Seemed like as good a day as ever to trade, maybe even a little something for ourselves.

"Well, long as we don't end up invading this town, we'll be fine. Hitman Actual, out."


	7. 1-4: She Screamed for Her Emperor

A/N: In celebration of Metal Gear Solid V, as of this chapter's posting being released tomorrow, here is where Gate goes Nuclear. Metaphorically of course: Part 1 of the Battle of Italica.

Anyway, review responses.

RiptideZ - Holy hell, this one, out of probably any other review across all my stories yet, had hit me the hardest. And I do appreciate it. Anyway, in the name of all transparency, here's my response to your points.

You caught me on a lot of things that I really do think personally should've caught myself on earlier: Sexualizing Shino, and to a lesser extent, Bannon and Kuro, and I would like to shove a little of that blame off to Gate's creator, but still, it's a valid complaint and I'll curb it from here on in.

Technology, your point on it is valid, seeing as I am ignoring what wonderful things are being offered today, but this, chalks up, to me, as my own bad writing decisions and me adhering to this story's main source material: Not Gate, but rather HBO's Generation Kill, which is an Iraq War dramatization. So I keep, or at least, try to limit myself, to Iraq War era gear and thus, practices I've seen.

ISIS – totally valid, as well as me and my poor decision to immediately just throw them under the rug with tactical weapons. Went back and left it a little open ended and ambiguous.

Outside world Reaction – I've been saving this for when Hitman and RCT3 have to face the music back home and appear before the Senate actually.

Anyway, your review has changed a few things from here on in, thought you should know, but there are somethings I'm willing to dare: like the Chinese and however they do it. I'll find a way to interpret the Chinese plot better, into something less asinine.

Mandalore – Yes, as RiptideZ has said, I'm in a really odd position in terms of nationalism these troops show off. Generally, I want them to be displayed as, broadly, tired: representative of an America of this time.

AznMagicman – Yes, I have been planning to do this with Pina Co Lada soon, after Italica, regarding history.

Rear Mirrors – I specifically point out several times that these Rangers, perhaps not the best choice in hindsight for this mission as noted by RiptideZ, are not Marines. They are operating with them, but are not a part of the Marines. They are separate. Really one of the many… creative liberties I've taken.

Anyway,

That being said I should point out that I am not a military service member, thus I do miss a lot of the actual, authentic little details that would fully sell this to those who knew better, and I apologize.

But I enjoy this type of writing and I learn new stuff everyday.

* * *

 ** _Section 1-4_**

* * *

"Itami, why do the Rangers sing?"

Rory had asked as she leaned in from the back to the front.

"Perhaps it is something religious, Priestess." Lelei had said.

Rory had looked back and smiled at the girl not even a percentage of her age, but had more knowledge than her at present.

"Please, just call me Rory… and is that true, Itami?"

Itami had pushed his helmet up as he was looking through his phone at another episode of Mei Com. They finally got limited connection set up, tethering all the way to Tokyo's net.

"Nah, they're just being Americans."

"Americans?"

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **"Weird Al" Yankovic - Party In The CIA**_

 _ **As sung by Hitman Squad**_

* * *

 _ **I moved out to Langley recently**_

 _ **with a plain and simple dream**_

 _ **Want to infiltrate some third world place (Whoa)**_

 _ **and topple their regime**_

Lelei had spoken up from the back:

"I believe past the Gate, there are several subspecies of humans, as there are subspecies of elves. Americans are one of them, and the people of Japan are another, am I correct?" Itami had given an odd look over to Kurata, he shrugging.

"Not quite… I mean, we're all the same, technically."

The Rangers had all joined one chorus:

 _ **So I get my handcuffs**_

 _ **my cyanide pills**_

 _ **my classified dossier**_

 _ **tapping the phones like yeah**_

 _ **shredding the files like yeah**_

 _ **I memorized all the enemy spies I gotta neutralize today**_

 _ **yeah it's a party in the CIA**_

 _ **yeah it's a party in the CIA**_

"Americans…" Itami had started.

* * *

 _They beat us in a war once, a long time ago. Beat us badly. Beat us using a weapon that, so far, they have been the only ones to use because everyone else is so scared to use it. They used to be the aspiration of the world._

 _…_

 _Yeah, us Men in Green? We're Japanese. Everyone else is an American on base._

 _Why aren't we all of their slaves? Well, the thing about Americans is that they were built on the fundamental vision that all people are born equal. Their history is long and ridden with conflict, defending that, not only in their own lands, but abroad. And not only that, it is not just an excuse: they believe in it and fight to the death for freedom and liberty for all._

 _Yes, Rory, all men and women are born equal. That's what they think. It's what we think._

 _No, not because they beat us. It's just right either way._

 _I mean… if we had beat them, I hope we'd be like… them._

 _Well, it's not that the Americans are always right, they just act on common sense and what is best…_

 _I mean, they have a way of doing that, their government is based on the people, and they have a lot of people, a lot of different people, as citizens. Their rights are that of the common word of men and women, every voice matters, and every decision is made with the majority consent._

 _It's very hard to explain what an American is, because, truth be told, I could be an American, you could be an American, but we aren't and we can't be yet._

 _They are… a young people, with an old soul, an entire world that used to be on their shoulders but became too much. They're very quiet, nowadays, but you can see it in the eyes of those Marines: they want to fight, they want to remind the world who they are:_

 _Americans._

* * *

"Just think about it sir," Masterson had said after finished up the song. "If we never came onto the scene, if these asshole Imperials never ruined our day in Ginza, what do you think the next thousand years of their history would look like? I mean, you came out with a history degree, didn't you sir?"

Masterson had talked to me as I chewed my gum, looking out at the plains and farmlands around. If I didn't know any better they were either having a bad crop season or they had been torched. Abandoned… and it certainly wasn't due to the flame dragon related evacuation.

Maybe this was more in response to us.

"The Romans lasted about fourteen hundred years. Feels like these people, in comparison, are a good four hundred years into it… I think, don't know… Don't actually have a date to go off of. Not that it matters to us, we're going on hometime in terms of the date."

"Wasn't my question sir, what'd you think we would've seen here without us?"

"Well, seeing as the Gate was just an extension of some sort of territory expansion scheme, I like to imagine there are other nations that this Empire is getting their elbows into… Maybe some sort of long conquest on behalf of the head monarch or something, that lasts for a few centuries as the peak of this empire, thousand years go by and then it starts tumbling down to the degradation of economic policies and social stigmas being introduced in a world that is changing too fast… it's an all too general thing to guess about when we know nothing about the figureheads, really."

Masterson had given off a 'hmph' and a shrug as he followed the boot of the JSDF LAV.

"Then what now?"

"Cowboys and Indians, Masterson, Cowboys and Indians and the expansion of the civilized man's agenda… much more drastic then America's original expansion, but I think the Japanese are picking up a lot of the shit from the Marines in terms of their fight and might. Might see something come up from it… I mean, yeah, the Marines are here to fight, but only that."

"Heh, and here I was thinking it was the white man's war."

"Motherfucker, what are you talking about? You are literally what Hitler envisioned, what is up with you and the white man's problem?" Black had yelled at from his Mk18 Turret, he himself as white as Cam.

"According to one of my bosses a while back, I'm an honorary Hispanic." Masterson reasoned.

"Whatever." Black had blown off and went back to scanning the horizon.

Road was as smoothed as any dirt road could've been, the rather soothing sound of road on ground comforting despite it all.

I hit my radio and let it open up on Itami's vehicle.

"Hitman Actual here, need contact with Lelei, how copy RCT3?"

A young voice came through.

"Yes?"

How odd it must've been for her to use this radio, I had thought before I cleared my voice.

"What's Italica look like, and how far away are we?"

"Italica is a defensible city that is a trading hub of this area, walls all around with appropriate set ups to counter. I believe we are…" her words dragged off, the sound Itami giving her the right words hitting her and she returning. "thirty minutes out."

"Alright, thank you miss, Hitman out." I clapped the radio back on its box. "Thirty mikes…"

"So like, six more rounds of singing."

"Look, you can make us all sing for one, anything else is all on you and your vocal sanctity Cam."

"Nah. Just a suggestion. Personally I'm wondering what the hell that blue haired one is trying to find out about us and what not."

"Probably just who we are. She's very interested in the machines, our guns, and what not moreso us." Black had said, leaning back in the turret ring.

"Should be the otherway around, really… I mean, you see that staff she got? Magic is for real kids… Hell, if things go south here, we can send her back to our world to work as a magician or some shit."

I blew out tiredly as we passed some sort of scarecrow propped up on the side of the road, not taking too much effort to see if it hadn't just been a crucified man. "Nonsense. She needs something a bit more meaningful, Masterson. She's a very bright girl, as far as I can tell."

Masterson scoffed. "Ain't that hard to learn Japanese, Ell-Tee, hell, even some whiskey tango like me can do it, Emerson-san."

The fact that Masterson had been fluent in Japanese had always made me chuckle in the back of my head, but it was a necessity, or at least, a highly recommended part of the job. To me, knowing Japanese hadn't been a bad experience, though my multilingual skills would've come useful when it came to my political career.

That is if it ever happened.

That being said I did have a commendation by the Japanese government to have a head up on everyone else…

"You really want to be one of the most willing people from this side of the Gate to come over to our world and be a magician?"

"No. She can be my maid back at my father's house after he dies and the will comes over my way. Y'all seen how she uses them dark arts to move heavy stuff, right?"

We did, and after reviewing our footage from the fire dragon take down, we had noticed her and Cato speeding past us in their ass drawn cart amazingly fast by the grace of magic.

Cato was a character himself too, but a bit too indulging in the curmudgeon like qualities that made us shy away from bringing him along.

If we wanted to sell off twelve bags of reptile scales in exchange for 330 years of income in one go, we'd do it with the Priestess we really could not say no to, the post-traumatic stress victim whose only sole reason for helping us along was to eventually take her revenge on that dragon which was most likely dead in some oversized ditch somewhere, and the magic wielding nomad girl…

And to think I used to be such a simple man.

"With the way she wants to help us out, she might as well become the Gate's liaison to our world." Black had said tiredly, he not saying anything of the fact that the fields around had been very evidently marched on.

"Not a bad plan… though that implies she's been the elected official… right now, she's just our translator."

"Well, should we use her as a translator or use her as a magician?"

Emerson had made a funny twitch with his nose as he remembered one of the few times he had personally talked to them all alone."I actually talked to her before we left. All of them, really… Rory said she could use that halberd of hers to great effect, and I really don't worry about her unless she's a vampire or something. Chuka… well, she's been asking me ever since we renovated their camp to train with us, I won't allow it. Lelei, she says she can use her magic if she's in danger, but nothing else. Magic is a sacred art, supposedly."

Masteron laughed. "Elf girl wants to train? Ain't she only sixteen or some crap? I mean, I only killed my first living thing when I was eig-"

I cut him off. "She's 165. Might look sixteen, but she's our elder, technically, by number alone. Even though her brain, as Doc and Kuro told me, isn't exactly that of an adult yet, she's had a century of being alive in this world to know how to use a bow and her own type of magic pretty damn well."

Peters had spoken up; he always did in the best times. "Is she a danger?"

"All three of them are, and I heard from a few of Marine officers there are contingencies in place for each of them, most of them just spraying them down with an AA12… we might be above murdering kids, but Marines aren't."

Nutt had been fiddling with his camera, he had mounted his on his rifle. These cameras been disguised up as laser designators, if anyone asked, they were given the paintjobs and the plastic shells to match. Always a sense of paranoia with them, even as our homemade documentary about being the number one special forces team this side of the Gate had become a bit of an odd thing: not of a plot, but of events that we did not understand.

Of course, the war stories come after the said war, not during.

"Hey Black,"

"Yes sir?"

"Whatever happened to those Imperial Bandits?"

Black had done a 360 sweep of his area. "I might go so far to say that they passed through this area, sir, fields seem matted down and we got a few debris from possible camps."

"Well, shit, why didn't Itami pick that up?"

Black leaned forward to get a look at the lead car. "On account he's occupied with our Holy Trinity up there."

"Ah."

* * *

Wherein Kuro had been RCT3's medic, our medic had been a man we had, perhaps unimaginatively, had called Doc, affectionately.

Man was some Canadian American whose last name was very hard to say with his rank, so we simply called him Doc.

He didn't mind, and in the last few months he had ample time to hone his craft and become familiar with the death and violence he was committed to helping out in both ways.

Who knew the Canadians could be evil like that.

We had found Italica half an hour and a field full of dead bandits later with steel from the Imperial Army. In fact, they were the Imperial Army, or at least, a division of the surviving Imperial Army we destroyed at Arnus.

Italica had been a fortress city to our first observations, not only in design but having proven its worth by the bodies lining the outside like some god damn feeding fest ready to happen for the vultures.

They didn't come yet though. Not when there was still danger around.

That had meant, distinctly, the city was still under siege after we rounded all of its side and picked an entrance:

No sooner than that had happened is when we saw the silver helmets of the knights of old poke their heads out from the wall with arrows and crossbows aimed at us.

The JSDF had stayed in their vehicles as we Rangers shoved open the doors and took cover behind them, stacking up.

Itami had always been the mediator after he walked out with barely a worry, the three girls behind him.

"Come on, Rangers, they're on edge. Let's just go knock and see what happens from there. Worst come to worst, we give you something to fight today."

* * *

 _ **Three Months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 9**_

 _ **The Special Region – Italica**_

* * *

Doc had shrivled his nose behind his own pair of aviators, his bald head shining much like them in the sun. "Whole damn place smells like death… hell, the living dead, even."

I had patted his shoulder and Loke's for them to fall in line with me, the two walking behind me with their weapons out still, even my own M16 held wearily as we followed Itami in behind the three girls.

"Halt!" A man's voice had kicked us in the teeth from ontop of the battlements.

We stood our ground as Masterson kicked in his radio.

"Team has line of sight of all visible threats, we'll fire if they do, sir."

Loke and Doc had heard the same, they shrugging and simply throwing their M4s over their shoulders or letting them hang off their slings on their chest.

Doc had been a bit antsy about it, his hands curling inward and outward. He did that, when anxious. "… Damn armor plates are rated for small arms… don't know about arrows and bolts though."

"Oh yeah Doc?"

"Just one hit and suddenly you have a telephone pole in your lungs, and it ain't even a sucking chest wound, it's just one giant impaling that'll let you feel yourself die all the way down as you collapse on it. Least with bullets it's clean and easy."

I looked up at one such large crossbow mounted up on the battlements aimed at us. I raised my hand and waved. Itami's easy going attitude had been something that had rubbed off.

"Hmm. Boiling pots of tar and water they got up there…" Loke had slowly pushed forward as Itami ignored the command. I thumbed down the MEU .45's hammer on my hip.

"Good observation, corporal."

"Great. So they can make stew and roads out of us later on. Just fucking great."

Doc had been sweating the last of his hair off, I only continuing my waving across the top of the stone monstrosities known as Italica's defensive walls as Itami finally made it to a wooden door besides the main gate, one of those great pots over him and the three girls.

He knocked. Three times.

Hopefully the defenders of this city that had been under siege knew that invaders never knocked this politely, our hands up as the pot was drawn back and the defensive positions being laxxed.

A woman's voice from the otherside had barked at them.

No sooner then that had happened did Itami get a face full of door and the man falling flat on his back in front of a rather overly excited looking, red haired, armored up, young woman.

The three girls simply did nothing look and stare as they did not believe what happened.

Why the hell them three had gone out was beyond me, but I suppose they were more locals than us.

Doc had twitched, wanting to go forward and help the man, but I simply barred my arm across his chest before he rushed over.

"Keep it cool." I made a thumbs up with my left hand over to our vehicles as they looked over here, dumbfounded, uswalking toward the incapacitated Itami.

The young woman's face was in shock.

"Was-" we changed our minds over to the common language. "Was that me?"

The three girls felt us come up behind them, looking at us with the sort of face you make when you really don't believe the shit in front of you.

We all looked at the young woman and nodded.

Loke had been a young woman who had listened to fairytales growing up in California, granted that a Disney themepark was nearby, so when we had dragged Itami in as our vehicles inched closer to entering, she had whispered to Emerson that the red haired woman, who was probably the same age as us, dressed and was outfitted like royalty in battle.

Or she just looked it.

Either way the defenders regarded her enough to not cut us down as we entered Italica's first line of defense in the hopes of finding a place to lay Itami down and fully treat him.

Chuka had taken Itami's canteen off of him and started pouring it over his face as Doc used some latex and looked at the welt on the man's forehead.

She was furious. "Don't you consider that somebody might stand in front of the gate?! Think about dwarves! Or hobbits! By doing this your manners are _**worse than a goblin!**_ "

Emerson had grunted with a sound of intrigue, speaking in, to everyone else, a foreign language to his men in desert tan and woodland, cobbled together as usual. "So apparently there are goblins, dwarves, or hobbits in this world. Make a note, Loke."

"Yes sir."

Lelei had looked back at the door we came in through, a knight barring it off with a chunk of wood. We were in Italica… and we were trapped.

"Come on you big baby. Wake up." Doc had patted the man's wet cheek for a few second before he groaned, backing off as Rory had taken the man into her lap and stared right in to opening eyes.

Defenders had surrounded them, half wary, half weary. They were nothing more than towns people with long sticks at this point, mixed in with a few knights and archers. Emerson had looked through the ranks past the first few defensive line and saw casualties, still bleeding out. He shook his head as his obligations battled with his need to not get caught up in shit today.

Itami had bolted up silently, grumbling in Japanese as the woman who knocked him out jumped scared.

Our radios had come to life.

"This is Hitman 1-1 to either RCT3 Lead or Hitman-Actual, how copy, over?" The people around us had looked at their radios as if there were people stuck in their tiny confines, which was usually the assumption to those first encountering radios.

Itami groaned as he wiped the wetness off of himself and criked his jaw straight. He knew what he had just come out of. He answered. "Uhm… yeah, I was out cold for a few seconds, let me just confirm the situation. Over."

He put his hand off the radio as he gave a visual sweep.

The Rangers waved at him to his right as he regained full coherency, the man waving back, the rest of his views taken up by the stone streets of Italica and its desperate defenders.

"Can someone explain what happened?" he asked.

Everyone looked at the red haired woman. She returned all the gazes back and forth almost with just as much desperation, not wanting to, but given no choice across the ranks. Loke had pointed at her.

"She happened."

Emerson had hauled Itami off his feet swiftly, returning his weapons to them they had stripped him of before they dragged him in.

"Hitman 2-1 here. Interrogative: You alright lieutenant? You have two of my people over there with you, you know. Over."

Emerson had answered his own radio. "Hitman-Actual. Doc and Loke are fine. Give us ten minutes, should be able to get us in. Out." The man had raised his finger and took off his helmet to say something, but he had been cut off by that red haired woman's lieutenant before he could get a word out.

"You fools! This is an affront to the Third Imperial Princess, Pina Co Lada."

Loke had cracked a smirk as Hitman and Itami all shared a look. The three girls had given a suspicious look to the red haired woman now.

"Imperial royalty, eh?" Emerson whispered beneath his breath, loud enough for his Rangers to hear.

"Berets out?" Loke asked, already having pulled the piece of clothing from her kit.

"Why not." Doc shrugged. "Damned cancer ain't gonna stop me from looking spiffy."

The three girls had either squealed in disbelief or surprise at the fact there was an Imperial of noted worth standing before us, perhaps even now they having recognized her. A few, in turn, had recognized Rory, and had said a prayer beneath their breaths before slitting their skin to draw blood for Emroy.

Itami had looked over to the Rangers as he stood guard over the girls, eyebrow raised as they donned a tan beret, on it: an emblem that harkened back to a war three centuries in the past.

It was formal as the Rangers were gonna get as they approached the princess in a chevron formation, the woman intimidated in her eyes as the defenders did nothing to dissuade her.

She tried to back pedal away, some of her defenders scrambling, her female lieutenant drawing her sword, but it was too late. Diplomatic relations were being started.

Emerson had held out a hand, an empty hand to the woman that all of them had a height advantage on, her face dirty, yet still with some sort of lipstick that seemed to highlight the fear in her eyes.

In the proud "big stick" theory of good ole Theodore Roosevelt, the stick can be the person themselves if it comes down to it.

Emerson withdrew the hand after the princess looked at it, confused, not doing anything. Emerson had guessed it wasn't a custom in this world.

"My name is 2nd Lieutenant Kristian Emerson, my friend which you knocked out: Lieutenant Itami Youji," the man had shuffled up and stood bedside Emerson, back straight and arms behind himself. "represent the Special Task Force on behalf of the Government of the United States of America, and the State of Japan."

Emerson threw up a v with his fingers. It wasn't quite the Vulcan greeting, but it was the same.

"We come in peace, we want to trade."

The sound of a horn being blared outside of the gate had made the people of Italica snap and cower for a second. It was Masterson getting impatient.

"But we're prepared for war."

* * *

Princess Pine Co Lada, as she was called, and I really hoped Masterson didn't botch anything when she found out her name, had did not understand anything I said in my formal greeting to her minus the last few things: As in I really hope you want peace, or else we will fuck you up as we did the rest of the Imperial Army.

That being said, I had my reservations going up against this girl when she barely looked twenty.

Itami had scoffed a bit at my forwardness, but I wasn't about to leave my men standing off with tired defenders for as long as we were in here.

"I highly advise you, Princess, to allow my men in and to rest their heads, just let us settle our vehicles in front of the first defense line and we'll go from there." I said.

She hesitated.

"Do this as a favor for knocking out my friend."

And so the men in green and tan had rolled into their gates, barely fitting, and the defenders were captivated again by the steel carriages with great black iron rods on them that had been rumored to spit so much death, it was not questioned why Rory had ridden with us.

I had given off our discarded helmets to Masterson and Bannon. "Lock down, keep your gunners mounted, but otherwise relax. These people have seen a lot of fighting these last few days and I think they know if they pick a fight with us it won't be pretty."

Masterson nodded. "How the hell are we the ones that are establishing diplomatic relations with the Empire?"

"We aren't technically, but it seems like they need us, and we have scales to sell. I'll check in every ten mikes. Itami is giving the same orders to his people."

"Roger."

Bannon had poked her head out from the car as she pulled the bolt back on her M4. "Remember, hearts and minds."

Loke and Doc had still been with me as we followed Itami and the girls up the Italica roads to the main castle, little conversation done for the matter of the general unease around.

We took it in stride as the gates opened to very worried servants and guards. Castle had become a CP, and we walked in like we owned the place, wiping the dirt off of our heels as we stepped into the halls that , between the used castles in our world and this, weren't that different, all things considered.

"Italica is a fortress city." Pina Co Lada had started, climbing us up the orante stairs as servants bowed. "It stands strategically at the intersection of the Tessaria and Appia Highways, thus making it an important commercial hub for the empire."

"Understandable. I can see how the bandits would want to control such a place."

She sniffled as we came into a hallways of windows and natural light, making our way deeper into the castle.

"I can see how anyone, would want this place." There was a rickety threat behind her words, of knowing what we might've wanted to do.

As an aspiring politician, threats mean nothing if I can put a bigger one out. It was never a matter of them owing up to those threats in my opinion, it was more of a matter of giving something in return. Retaliation that led to an ultimatum. Nothing held back.

"Are you the Lord of this town, Princess?" Itami asked.

She had shook her head as we continued to walk.

"No. For generations this city has been overseen by the counts of Fromar, Imperial nobility. But when the last Count died, his three daughters started an internal power struggle that centered around the true heir: their youngest sister."

It was a tale all too familiar across all lands and nations and families. I'm sure Masterson would've said something if he was here about it.

"This stuff happens in every world, eh?"

The princess stopped, remembering who we were.

"This is not the first world you have invaded?"

I spoke up fast. "We are not invading. We are simply responding to what we believe to be an Imperial Incursion into our territory that left many civilians dead. Do you not understand the gravity your Empire has with us?"

Her lieutenant twitched her eye at us. "How dare-"

"How dare we respond to our blood being spilled. Right?" I cut her off as Loke and the Doc moved forward a bit, seeing her aggression.

I took a step forward to them as we turned. We stopped in the middle of the hallway.

"Princess. All things considered, I am happy that I am able to talk to a person of such distinction and representation within the Empire, as in order to start talks between our two world fully. However, what remains are two facts: This town, presumably under your defensive responsibility, is under siege. And your Empire killed the innocent, and we are seeking justice. Neither point can be ignored, but one is more relevant than the other…" she had never been talked to like this before, I had seen in her eyes. "Do you understand what I am saying? Do you understand who we are?"

"..W-who?"

"We are the people who will help you save this city and rid you of your banditry problem for all time, and it is your choice, if you let us do so."

She licked her lips nervously as she turned back around, wanting to get everything out of her head as she kept leading us on.

Itami put a hard hand on my shoulder and poked his head at me for a second, as if saying "the fuck was that?"

I simply remained silent as I remembered why I had been so willing to come over this Gate. Revenge wasn't a good word, but response had been vanilla enough.

"Th- the head of every family was supposed to lead their men into battle during the expedition past the Gate, and the attack on Arnus Hill…" she said it with such nervous scorn it reaffirmed my position. "None, returned."

"Where were you then?" Doc had asked.

"The Capital. We had not anticipated that 120,000 men had been killed so easily… needless to say it has left a gap in both power and security across our territory. Even defending this fortress city has been difficult."

We said nothing as we came to the end of the hallway and a door. It felt like Iraq all over: power vacuums to be filled by nothing more than bandits and survivors for their own gain.

We told ourselves there was no way an Iraq would repeat itself over here, but then again, human nature is a constant throughout how many worlds had them.

"Beyond this door lies the current ruler of Italica and countess of her family: Myui."

The doors were open, and all we saw was a child in a pink dress, sitting where her family once did proudly.

Loke had given off a vocal surprise. "She's just a child."

As was my thoughts when kids in Afghanistan, long ago, had to pick up an AK47 and be their village's protection. They were just children.

Lada had walked beside the quiet girl, putting a hand on her chair.

"I believe she turns eleven this year, and as such, she is not able to command an army in battle… as such, my order and me, have taken command of Italica's defenses in her stead."

* * *

There was something of a royal deliberation room that Princess Pina Co Lada had lead her new would be allies, as she convinced herself, into and sat down. There was even wine poured in gold chalices as the girls had sat themselves down in between the soldiers. It was an odd combination, but Pina Co Lada had admitted that it only showed how far that they'd been able to interact with the populace of her father's empire.

A nomad, the personification of death, and a wood elf with an unkind look in her eye. Normally elves like her had supposed to be mostly benevolent, but there was something brewing in her that she wished the last of her defenders had.

Moral was low, as was headcount, but the introduction of these men in green and tan had been something else.

"You mentioned you would help us." she said to the soldiers.

Emerson looked at Itami for cooperation, which he nodded.

"Yes. We will, however only on the guarantee of our safety, a concrete diplomatic relation be set with us and the Empire afterwards, and for us to originally complete our task here today."

"Which is what?" she asked.

Lelei's magic had gone beyond things that could be described via physics and quantum mechanics, so when she had used her staff to gently tap the floor, and suddenly having twelve big bags of dragon scales pops out from her tote bag impossibly, it had gotten the point across she was learned in the dark arts.

Doc had pointed at them and then to Emerson. Emerson shrugged. Doc was a logical person and he was stuck in a very illogical place as of current.

"We want to trade these scales to a trader in town in order to provide monetary funds to several Imperial refugees that have come to us." Itami stated.

"What?" the princess didn't believe it.

"Yes. We have around fifty refugees in Arnus that are currently living with us. These three women sought to sell these scales from remains of the Arnus battlefield in town. We did not seek to come here without them." Loke had followed.

Lada had looked at them all separately. "Are you prisoners?"

"Hardly." Rory.

"They treat us very well." Lelei.

"There is nothing to say otherwise, princess." Chuka.

"I can report the same from the 6,000 currently held in our responsibility past the gate, some of Imperial Royalty."

"What?!" the princess's own chalice shook in her hand.

"This is all the information I am willing to give to you at present, however rest assured we are open to negotiations at a later time regarding the refugees, the prisoners, and other topics."

She had stumbled with her hands, her drink very much shaking. I didn't think I was that scary a person.

"What are you? An official envoy?" she asked.

"No. Just a soldier, princess." and an aspiring politician to boot.

Names alone do not dictate responses, reactions, answers. Character does, purpose.

Her name, her blood, did not mean anything to me.

I did not need to reiterate that we were a threat to her, to this entire town, however we offered her the olive branch first and we would act only on that. Any discretion from her would be her decision alone. This town needed us.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – 10 kilometers from Italica**_

* * *

Of all the refugees that had escaped on behalf of the men in green and the Rangers, it was statistically impossible for all of them to be good people.

Hardly. After resting their heads and selling their belongs, a good portion of them had gone the way of the raider, acting on some new orders that came down from the Emperor himself to burn, pillage, and make the land between Arnus and the Capital just short of unusable. Mercenaries, criminals, everyday people wanting another silver coin to their name had answered the call of death and destruction so easily.

It was nothing against those men from Arnus and another world, but money was money and business was business.

These many would be new mercenaries with the Emperor's decree had met halfway from the receding territory of the Empire with those who had been abandoned by it: the survivors of Arnus. Either way, they both wanted Imperial land to burn and pillage.

So perhaps as a momentary truce, there had been an overnight crusade formed, meant to salt the Earth to stop those people from another world of "ending us all", as the Imperial Capital had been buzzing about lately.

"I heard there was some of those men heading toward Italica. Let's take out two birds with one stone!"

Was the off comment taken too seriously.

It was a suggestion strong enough, between a major trading hub and those mystical soldiers, that spurred just about twenty thousand Imperial mercenaries, regulars, and even some of the ex-regulars, to march toward Italica where several of the Arnus survivors had already tried to hit.

By tomorrow, they planned they would be having breakfast inside the walls of Italica.

Then again, the Empire had already thought by this time they would've owned another world.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Italica – South Gate**_

* * *

Harris had an arm, as befit a former football player, so when he tossed our UAV up into the air at over the south gate's battlements. He had hurled the small plane that was more like an RC hobbycraft like it was nothing, a small grunt stopping him as the UAV's engine kicked itself in and flew off and over into the sunset sky.

"Damn."

Harris had given the squad a cheeky smile as Loke flew the UAV with the MFD in the dying light.

We'd all been assigned to the South Gate, both RCT3 and Hitman, the local forces vacated to either the east or west gates. Still didn't stop from some of the civilians to whoop at us form ontop of the battlements.

"Huh." Loke had furrowed her eyes at the MFD on the laptop this piece of technology came with. "Black, look out like, three hundred meters and at that row of bushes."

Black was our DMR this time around, he having taking prone and staring out the defenses from the top of the walls with the rest of us. His SR-25 had been a faster thing than the M95 that Masterson lugged around with his 870, but it was what we needed up front in case of siege warfare.

Not that Ranger school ever taught us against siege warfare.

This was all just making stuff up as we go along.

I peered out from my binos in that direction with Itami and his second in command. "Got something already, Loke?"

"Three horses, three riders. Scouts, along the ground."

We had given Chuka a bow and arrow set to her pleasure, said something about getting practice again. She has posted herself with Black as our chief marksmen that day. Bannon and Masterson had kept their squads tight and ready well.

Just how I liked it.

Masterson had walked over as he heard the mention of horse.

He raised a finger, "Don't know if this'll work from this far out, but this is usually how I got horses's attention."

According to Loke, the riders had brought their horses down and were still on them as the beasts were on their sides, it was a familiar maneuver to hide horses and riders in the same go, laying against the ground.

Masterson brought two pinkies to the side of his lips and blew hard, Black and Chuka drawing their weapons.

The high pitch whine of the whistle had made the horses startle themselves and brought them on four feet, bringing their riders up and out.

I hadn't given the all clear to fire, but to be fair Chuka was never educated on engagement policies as she put three arrows behind her string, whispered a few unintelligible words under he breath, let the arrows go and each of them hitting the riders dead.

The arrows had some sort of sparkle to their trails.

I wasn't even mad as the horses scampered off away, their dead riders still flopping on ragdolls on them.

"You know…" Masterson had been just as awestruck as I, and everyone else who had seen the triple shot, had been. "During our takedown of that dragon a few days ago, I noticed one of its eyes was already shot out… was that your doing?"

She shrugged, having drawn another arrow to replace the one she shot off. "My father's work."

Black had simply dropped the mag in his SR-25 and knocked it against his helmet, fastening the rounds. "Well, let me tell you, your father woulda' been proud."

She had nodded solemnly and went down the wall in her own self-appointed patrol.

Itami glowered as he kept looking out to the south, the numerous smokes from camp fires in the background hadn't been a pretty picture as Loke controlled our UAV out there.

"Scouts." Pops had said simply as Masterson excused himself and marched the opposite direction.

"Behind this is the main enemy force." Itami noted, pointing in the general direction tiredly.

"Got a read on how many?" Pops asked.

Itami looked over to Emerson, who in turn had been waiting on Loke's first read.

The officer had scratched the back of his neck harshly, the sweat itching him.

"We'll wait till we get their UAV to fly over. After that, well, doubt we can do much but sit on our ass and shoot if they come close."

Pops had blankly stared at those pillars of smoke in the background and their numbers. The sky in the distance had been rendered black because of it.

"Population of Italica is around 5000, give or take. If you give everyone a weapon, and we can't, the enemy should still be able to find a weak spot… Apparently the princess is assuming that to be it."

The two JSDF personnel turned around to the set up the defenders had left here: walls around the other side of the south gate meant to be turned alight. They were planning for this wall to fall, especially since it had been the most direct route.

"She set us up." Itami had observed.

"When you're a defender, you're always set up." I had grumbled. "Personally, I think you JSDF have the leg up on us in this one."

Pops had pointed outward. "More used to going out there and attacking?"

"Rangers lead the way, bud." How tired that phrase was to me yet it was still true. "I'll die as close to the enemy as I can, not on my back."

Bannon had passed us by as she heard our conversation. "Not like these people are of any threat to the US."

Of course not. "Still, here we are and they're a danger to us. I say that necessitates any of our actions coming up."

She nodded at us, straightening her back to deliver a report. "Autogunners and marksmen have been set up, up and down this wall from both my team and Masterson's. Twenty guns ain't gonna cut a large scale incursion though, I doubt."

"Itami radioed the JSDF earlier, and I called in to Overlord. If they don't hear our checks in from here on in on the hour, each hour, they'll assume we've been overrun and send in the appropriate response teams."

"So we're ready to expand the front lines?"

I nodded. "Cato Village has already been scouted out by the marines as a forward firebase, and the JSDF armor is fueling up to expand at least to Cato village for territory. If all goes well, we should see another expansion to Roche Hill…"

"Really? How can we-"

I cut Itami off. "JSDF is expanding its manpower here seeing as we have more reserves coming online, so I heard. Might even drop the cutoff date of the equipment to modern."

Itami seemed disturbed. "We're expanding our manpower here?"

"Either to accommodate pre-existing operations or to get ready for another push." I answered.

His teeth had grit, jaw tightened, but he let out a low breath instead, a little ragged as I heard the lungs of a man just reintroduced to cigarettes.

I patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Alright!" he yelled out, addressing his men, "Nishina, Katsumoto! Get the sandbags set up in these inlets and clean up anything at risk of burning us. Kuribayashi! Distribute NV gear. They'll probably hit us at night."

"Sir!" Another yell had come from Loke on her laptop, the UAV having done its job. She had a scared look in her eye, having seen a number that she did not want to acknowledge either out of two prospects: Her dying because of it, or having to deal with killing them all.

"UAV pick something up?" I asked. She handed me the tablet and saw the UAV's software try to punch in a number that went above its head counting software.

Itami looked at me as I now wore that same look. "Change of plans."

* * *

Everything had come out from the black boxes. Everything. The muscle suits were on underneath the carriers and the armor, the American standard issue weaponry which we would not hear end of from the armorers for servicing had been locked and loaded along with the inventory we had popped out of Arnus with, NVGs on, and a complete blackness ordered across the south gate.

The princess hadn't believe the number that one of our messengers had delivered to the east and west side, and so she had blown him off, the modern military men and women left to the south gate as the fires in the distance went out, and darkness overtook the land.

My Rangers had quite liked to don the muscle suits, if only because it made the night more bearable on their heads, every single Ranger I had now deployed up and down the south wall as the JSDF tried their best to vacate the buildings of Italica to more center of the town.

Up armored, up armed, down with the odds of several thousands of men to each of us.

The UAV had still been flying above, and it had seen that seemingly million man army of regulars, ex regulars, and mercenaries slowly march their way out. They hadn't even been subtle about it in the night.

Dozens of US Army weapons of the current age had been placed strategically, though some unammned, throughout the south wall. This had been our fight distinctly as my troops double checked their ammo feeds and weapons, up and down.

A crude drawing of the town had been made with marker and paper in the dark, me and my squad leaders shooting a flashlight at it. "First line will fall. No doubts about it." Was the dark observation by all of us. Even ours. Just by sheer number alone, the enemy didn't need to sneak around and divert flanks or anything. All they seemed to need was to just walk on up and take this city by brute force.

"Armored vehicles stay entrenched around the castle. We're not moving them at all. Yet." I said as I pointed at the stone I was using as a representation for said castle in the middle of the town.

"And the call for reinforcements right at this instance?" Bannon asked behind her NVGs, she cradling an MCR in her hands like old hat.

"Denied. Marines and the JSDF are currently in their own deployment to start clearing the land up to Coda. 0300 response remains set, but I doubt we'll be alright by then."

"I've checked the ammunition. Even one bullet per person and we still won't have enough." Masterson reported as he sat more liberally on the ground of the wall. His silence was deafening. "I even talked to Lelei about some replication magic or some shit and she said if it was better if we just constructed this crap by hand… it'd be faster or maybe she's just bullshitting us so she can see how our bullets work."

"Doubt she cares, really." I said.

Bannon's mouth twisted into a confused form. "What?"

"She's like us. Outsiders. We wouldn't really care about this if it wasn't us here."

"Well… we're here." Bannon responded.

"We'll live to see daylight, probably. Just need to make sure to put up enough of a fight to keep the south gate clear… worse comes to worse we punch a hole through south gate forces and let the city fall as we retreat."

"And the girls?"

"If we retreat or during this battle to come?"

"Battle to come."

"Rory will handle herself fine, I guess, no way to predict what kind of card she is. Lelei is a pacifist, more or less, and Chuka says she'll fight."

"Bow and arrow still?" Bannon asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, fuck, least we can get twenty more kills or some shit, accounting her now."

The silence of doors being kicked in by the JSDF was maddening as they tried to evacuate the remaining civilians, but it was needed.

"What's going on with east and west then? What if they fall before us?" Bannon asked.

"They will… and…" I drew lines from them to the castle. "Itami said he delivered some plans to her for retreats, said the main route was to head straight back to the castle to let our armored vehicles chew them up. If worst comes to worst." I shook my head, not believing the shit I was saying.

Town was never meant to weather an attack like this on a good day.

Now it was undermanned and night.

"You know… if we die here, it might give us the ability to for the US to deploy more troops and what not. Avenge our deaths. We'll be martyrs."

I shook my head and laughed, tiredly to Masterson. "Is that your highest dream, Cam? To become a martyr?"

He shrugged his shoulders, one of them still hurting a tad from an arrow having hit it in what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"At the end of today, Kay, we'll are either be martyrs or mass murderers. Either or."

Bannon blew some air from her nose in an agreeable noise. "I can live with either."

"Can we?" I added.

Loke had butt in again from the ground level. "UAV is now in orbit mode above us. Should keep eyes on our IFFs and display incoming hostiles on our HUDs."

The helmets we wore underneath our NVGs had been a bit like the Roman helmets, mandibles carrying glass over our faces that showed us holographic displays. Almost like a videogame, really. We were explicitly told not to use these suits bar drastic circumstances due to the amount of upkeep they needed and the fact that the armorers at Camp Omega could not abide.

Now was a drastic scenario though.

"Thank you corporal." I said simply, waving the woman off to man her position.

"I really do wonder if there's anything worth it for America here, you know." Masterson said after a silence, the moon above as blue and as clear as ever. These unpolluted night skies were always a treat. "I mean, I know why we are out here, but still…."

"America always used to be the ones on the frontier…" Bannon had said as we all looked up into the night sky, toward that army coming toward us. "I think the Japanese just want us here for an affirmation, of sorts."

"Affirmation of what?" I asked. "To come here, save their asses, leave 'em with thousands dead and a thousand problems, and go home after we got what we want?"

"Well, maybe exactly that. Who knows."

"I mean, is it really that noble for us to be coming to a land like this and helping another first world nation absolutely wreck the shit of a world a millennium behind us? Like… I don't know, shouldn't we be guiding them." Masterson's reflections were not lost on me.

"Eventually…hopefully, hell, maybe the answer is to not do anything at all. We just need to get through tonight. If the Empire sends a force this heavy anywhere near our frontline again, well… something big will happen."

"Well, no shit, Kay." Bannon had used my nickname for once.

"One of our tank commanders, the British one, he said something of the like that some of the JSDF officers on this side of the Gate are looking to use their resources to cut themselves off from their dependencies outside."

Another crash and a door had been broken in by the JSDF, dragging the civilians outside and forcing them to go up toward the castle for their own good; not that they understood of appreciated it.

"I bet your ass that is what every single country in the world is thinking: using this place as a resource hole… Probably even us." Masterson said, leaning to the wall, bathed in moonlight. "Well, y'all be thankful we could be dying here tonight, cause we die here, least we die for these people instead of some political aim."

"Hmph. You're speaking in the present, Cam, not hindsight."

"Suppose, not that I'm too concentrated on dying tonight." Masterson had taken his 870 and pumped it back, grasping the slug that came out and thumbing it back into the chamber. "… and all this shit for a delivery run. Capitalism will be the end of us all."

Masterson had a point buried beneath his bullshit, as usual. If we die here tonight, it wouldn't be for America, the JSDF, or Tracey. It would've been for the people here.

Suppose I could make peace with that.

Five minutes later, the pinging in our HUDs had come alive. Black had readied his marksman rifle outward but saw nothing but black with his natural vision. The digital one gave him red squares to aim at.

But those waves of red squares kept growing, and growing, and growing.

There was no yell across the board to verify contacts, just the realization that a battle had come.

Even when an explosion was heard at the west gate where the princess was, there was no hype, no shout.

"Contact south." Emerson had lazily adjusted his MCR against the stone block and sandbags they had set up. "Get enough of them, might scare 'em off… if the target counter becomes too much, just go on visual alone…"

Bannon had spoken up over the radio from her position on the west end of the south wall. "Conserve your ammo, aim for any volatile substances you see, tar, fire pits, anything."

"And remember boys," said Masterson from the east. "the Alamo."

* * *

The enemy came from three directions, south, east, and west, and how they came was with a fiery falling of the sky.

Stars formed on the ground seemingly at instant, and as they seemed to pivot up and to ascend to the sky, all the defenders knew what was coming.

"Against the wall move!" Emerson had yelled before any of Hitman had fired off a shot, arrows descending on them as they left their weapons and pressed their bodies against the inside wall.

The impact of thousands of arrows against Italica's structures and, across the other defenses, bodies had been deafening. Like the sound of a thousand sturdy branches hitting solid ground, only after they had hit ground did Hitman, for the most part, open their eyes.

"We good?!" Masterson had shouted across the wall, very wary of arrows at this point.

That was when the world shouted back, and when the armies came.

Hitman was untouched, but the city had started to spark and burn behind them in small portions due to the barrage of arrows, the broke lines of them lining all of Italica as RCT3 made its way back to the south gate.

Bu that time the gunfire had erupted from LSAT LMGs and the DMRs, the other rifles, 2003 era LMGs, and the lone archer that was Chuka had waited to fire.

The tracers had lit up the night sky as the waving wands that they were rumored to be, cutting down the charging masses of raiders that had defied the eye, it left Emerson agape for just a second as RCT3 roared up the stairs behind them, the enemy army seven hundred meters out and closing, fast and on their feet.

The enemy came fast, and they fell hard, that much was evident by how bodies had hit the mud and were trampled over.

To say that a certain seed of hopelessness had been installed in the men of Hitman and RCT3 hadn't been a lie, and Doc had yelled out in agony, in pain.

"Status?!" Doc was assigned to Masterson's team, and he had yelled over the air.

Harris had responded. "It's alright! Doc just bit a part of his tongue off."

This is what Normandy must've been like, Emerson had thought, it really must've been as the enemy breached the five hundred meter line, only to run into something the town's wounded had been able to do with their injured selves: make barbed wire.

It was amazing the amount that had been pumped out by the blacksmith by short notice, but it was a surprise and a treat nonetheless as the wire was hidden in the dark, and men's feet were shredded by what looked liked bundles and bundles of it, spread out across the entire perimeter of Italica.

So much so that those who tripped over it were probably dead by the fact their bodies were ripped after being pushed forward through it by the overeager backline.

They got bogged down enough for the rifles to finally start engaging.

"Open fire!"

RCT3 had just barely set up by the time Emerson had yelled the mass of open fire to the massing human wall that had been a quarter barbed wire and a third ripped flesh and bodies tripping over it.

That was the sum of the first hundred rounds or so spent by the men of Hitman: making a human wall of corpses up and down the South wall as men tripped and ripped in the bundles of barbed wire, leaving those to clamber over right into the stream of fire: falling back down and adding to the mountain still.

The fire, bar the LMGs, had been all semi-automatic. Supersonic punches to the hearts of men and raiders that frozen them in place as a heart, a head, a lung was shot and missing form them.

The best of Imperial armor did nothing but break and brittle underneath the scrutiny of 6.8 and caseless ammunition.

Itami had been the last to go up the wall with a cart full of bottles.

Emerson had noticed during a particularly heated reload which he had been using the battlements as cover from the occasional return arrow.

Chuka's use of magic had been barbaric at best, each of her yells, not a cry of war, but a cry and a push for the arrows she was firing to seek out other archers and take them down.

"The hell are those?" Emerson yelled in English.

"Courtesy of Lelei!" he had taken a bottle and thrown it over the wall, the second it broke was when a yellowish, green smoke had come from it and immediately stopped the enemy dead. Harris had a sense of smell that betrayed him sometimes, so when he had taken a whiff after reloading his airburst grenade launcher, he knew what he smelled and immediately put his helmet back on.

"God damn mustard gas?!"

It was a violation of the Geneva Convention, but technically Lelei had been a nomad and a non member.

"Dammit man! You can't throw that shit at them!" Emerson yelled out of the part of his mind that noted regulation. The rest of him hadn't really cared as he rolled back over and sighted up his optics as the men had kept coming.

No pigs, ogres, or anything like that. Just men.

Emerson's first shot after the reload had been a heavy axe wielderm a shot in the shin burying him in the mud as his compatriots pushed him into the Earth, crushing him alive as the human mountain continued still, the barbed wire unwilling to let go of those caught.

People often forget what a bullet can do to people.

It's never as simple as two holes and a loss of blood.

It's a hole the size of a quarter, a coin, scrambling the insides that had been so designed by nature to work perfectly as it is, and making it into what might be mistaken as ground beef as the bone fractures and explodes with the exit wound, ten times bigger than the entry.

And even then, it's not the bullet that kills, technically: it's the blood loss, the organ failure, the disconnect from spine to brain.

Death is never pretty, and neither is war.

Still, people get off to it all the time, as was the noises coming from where we kept Rory: down on the gate level.

Emerson had been very sure of what a halberd could do, and if she really wanted to fight, she needed to be downstairs in front of the gate when it was bursting open.

Then again, bursting open was a poor choice of words, all things considered as the dead had now climbed slowly into the hundreds.

Each soul had passed through Rory, as was her purpose: conduit for her god, but it didn't mean it was an entirely bearable affair.

Not that anyone heard it from on top of the wall, putting down fire enough as brass started pooling and rolling off the wall inward. The men and women of Hitman were, much in the shared opinion of their commander, good shots enough that one bullet was enough as each of the Hitman elements had been straining their body, twitching from each target to the next, pulling down the trigger once and taking the bucking of their rifles and weapons before returning it to another charging body.

Poetry in motion, and if only Bowie had the weapons America had now, maybe Santa Anna might've not taken the Alamo.

Lelei herself had reappeared from her hiding space with ear protection she had borrowed from our kits, taking the potions she had brewed in some house that the JSDF had kicked into, and lending a hand by simply using her magic, and tossing it out to the human wave outside, all of them yelling, chanting, adding to Rory's pains.

The green wall of gas that was all too similar to the weapon used by an ancient German dictator and Saddam Hussein had gone to where the line of barbed wire had been concerning the south, halting the advance of men still trapped at the line of barbed wire, the cloud coming to cover it and push into the dark.

"RCT3! Hold position here!" Itami had yelled as the fire settled and the choking of men and the ecstasy of a girl was heard below them.

Itami looked over to both the east and west gate before looking at Emerson. They both nodded.

"Masterson! Head to the east gate with Team Two. Bannon, go west and help the princess with One! RCT3 stays here and holds this place down. Go!"

Emerson had used his hand movements even in the dark, all of the Rangers shifting and sprinting down the wall to either direction as RCT3 took their place.

Kurata had fallen onto his stomach as he inherited Harris's mounted gun. "All civilians are currently in the castle. We can torch the city now if needed."

Masterson had dropped the 6.8 mag into his pouch, having emptied it on the last push, stopped by the use of a mountain of corpses and Lelei's gas.

Emerson laid on his back as he finished the reload, pulling the bolt back and laying the gun on his stomach, looking at Lelei ducking beneath the stair inlet. "What is that shit out there?"

Itami had peered out with his binoculars and had seen flesh start to peel and burn amongst those he could see poke their dead bodies out of the cloud, some still alive and crawling.

No ammo was wasted.

"The Marines were talking aloud one day regarding contingencies necessitating the onsite creation of "Willie Pete" and "Mustard Gas". They talked of composition and general ingredients too aloud."

Emerson had slapped his helmet straight, not believing what this girl was saying.

"You're too smart for your own good girl." he said as he shuffled away from the entire cart of VERY volatile material, ignoring that it were Marines that had been brewing the stuff. What better way to avoid the scrutiny of the international community than to brew it on base. But why, though?

The UAV's headcount monitor had slowly blipped the dead out of existence, not that it had done anything to lower its malfunctioning actual count.

Behind the cloud the chant continued:

 _ **THIS IS WAR**_

 _ **EVEN THOUGH OUR BODIES FALL WE REMAIN WARRIORS**_

 _ **THE SALUGHTER IS CLEAR**_

 _ **OUR DEATH IS CLEAR**_

 _ **THIS IS OUR WAR**_

 _ **PRAISE TO EMROY**_

By the time Bannon's team had gotten back to the west gate, the wall defenses had fallen and the defenders had gotten behind the first line's last defense: the wooden fence separating gate from town.

Heads posted on pikes; dead bodies shamed and drawn bare by the raiders, displayed in that empty space between raider and defender. Even as the team ran down the wall, they did not need clarity to know what was happening and to enrage them.

Bannon herself had lead the charge across the wall, drawing an AA12 to her hip as the invading raiders that were hopping over the walls saw what they feared: the soldiers from another world.

A knight in armor had been Bannon's meatshield as she shoved the AA12's barrel into the man's stomach, blowing a hole through armor and flesh before shooting through and taking out the rest of the invaders that had stood on the wall on their way down.

Bannon screamed, she did, muffled underneath her helmet, blood splattering the glass on it to no bother to her as she slowly pushed forward, the dead knight now pushed through the barrel and held by it as she marched to the sound of what could only be possibly be described as the most violent war drums ever heard.

The sound of the beats, the sound of flesh tearing, had been from the buckshot of the AA12, the sound of burning having been from her squad backing her up with pinpoint rifle shots, kicking off and igniting the ladders that the invaders set up as those raiders inwards had looked back up.

No one that hadn't been a modern person had torn there eyes away from the west gate's walls and how a woman blew away chunks and chunks of men by just holding down the trigger of that great, black, metal trumpet looking device with a cylinder in the middle feeding rounds out.

Men fell off, perhaps in pieces, from the wall as Bannon's squad pushed, shot, and kicked them off, clearing it faster than anyone had ever seen in a counter attack of this nature, and no sooner had the ladders gone up in smoke and the west gate's wall been clear, had Bannon shoved the man on her gun off to the ground, and resumed firing downwards, into the clearing between raider and defender, and dealt with those who preyed on the week as god's do: with thunder.

Princess Co Lada had been desperately been trying to get her emotional men under control, some of their wives having just been killed and abused even in death.

But she herself was brought under control as she saw the mince meat Bannon and her squad had made as they saved the west gate from being overrun. How easy it was to kill.

The fire from the flaming ladders rose above the west gate, giving this part of the defense a breather, only for that breath to be taken away as they saw the silhouettes of the soldiers from Arnus, against the night sky.

They weren't done as they turned their backs on the defenders and pointed their guns outwards, tossing grenades into the congregated mass of those wanting to break in, but the gate itself, courtesy of Bannon, now full of corpses to travel over.

The rain, and reign, of modern firearms ruled over them masses again, as the seemingly bottomless AA12 opened up outside of the Gate, towards the covering shield formations, the wooden instruments of siege and pillaging. Bannon's teeth had been rattling by the vibrations of the AA12, the click of it being empty immediately having her drop the large drum magazine and retrieving the next of a handful: this one with explosive rounds.

Nothing, and no one, was spared as the great crowd of raiders just raring to climb over those walls retreated and tore themselves up over the barbed wire again, dissipating like water in the heat.

Princess Pina, in all of her wisdom, in her original task of scouting out these soldiers of Arnus, had sought to complete her task, and climbed up that blood ruined wall, pieces of flesh everywhere, her shined metal boots getting dirty for once, and saw what these soldiers saw, not only here, but possibly at Arnus.

Not one word had been said across from them, their uniforms having them all blend into one entity, and it confused her. It scared her. At how different these people were, under their helmets, but how outwardly they fought as one.

She could not find where their leader was, so all she did was watch in horror as the enemy of the Empire, saved them, one shot, one explosion, one great carnage at a time.

Their wands would not stop. They sound that made her ears ring was unceasing. The reality that these weapons, these men and women, were under any other pretense, were turned towards her, was maddening.

She held her ears, and she screamed for her Emperor.

* * *

The sound of thunder.

It meant monsters, colloquially, in this world, I realized.

But tonight the sounds of thunder had been coming from the AA12s Bannon and Masterson had deployed on either end, and they just would not stop for a span of five minutes as we heard from the south gate, intermingling with Rory's obvious troubles. Lelei, in all her logic, had stepped up and out, fearing no danger as Itami looked down at the gate below and saw Rory rolling around on the ground, writhing.

He stepped toward the stairs, only for an elf and a staff to stop him.

 _ **"Leeettt THEM iN! LET thEM in, nng."**_ Rory's displeasures with our successful defensive strategy of "kill so many of them they trip on their bodies" had been less than helpful.

Out there on the barbed wire line, thanks to whatever magical gas Lelei had conjured up, men seemed to be melting.

"Why can't we go to her?" Itami asked.

The sound of her halberd hitting the door had caused those not glued to a weapon station to immediately peer over the edge of the wall and look at Rory, thrashing at the gate and the stone around it.

"Because she is an apostle." Lelei answered as the elf and she let Itami go.

Itami tilted his tired head confused as I took off my helmet for a second, unsure if whether to bark at the girl or to open the gate and appease her.

"What does an apostle do, in regards to her God again?" I asked.

"The souls of the fallen warriors on the battlefield pass through her body on their way to Emroy. As a demi-goddess, and an apostle, the effect on her is an intoxication that she can only curb by killing."

The sound of a battle horn had blared in the distance in regards to South. My radio had kicked in.

"Hitman 2-1! East is clear! Over!"

"This is Hitman 1-1, West has been pacified for now, enemy in full retreat. How copy?"

I slid on my helmet again as the UAV did its calculations. Still no effect on the total hostile count.

"This is Hitman Actual, I copy all. Reconvene on South Gate, enemy has routed and is reforming battle lines for a hit on the South. I repeat-"

I was cut off as a ball of fire was ignited in the distance of considerable size, the sound of a straining catapult in the distance staying my words.

The sound of rope being snapped was another, the visage of a ball of fire coming from the dark like nothing else.

"Scramble!" Itami yelled, and RCT3 had taken off in every direction as that giant clump of what looked like stone slammed just short of the wall, shaking the ground, rolling and taking out the gate only for Rory to use her halberd and sheer it in half.

The door was open, and her black form had disappeared into the black of night, passing through the gas wall like it was nothing.

The sound of maniacal laughing from her had only been answered by the screams of a hundred thousand men.

Hitman had been panting again as the boulder that was burned in the background, reassuming their weapon positions with bloody palms and red footprints.

"How many hours until our call for reinforcements is taken seriously?"

I glanced left at my time marker in my HUD.

"Two hours."

* * *

One hour later and it seemed the attacks had stopped. No one had of course, in their right mind believed they had. Of course any notion of anyone being right of mind had been thrown away as Loke had, with bloody finger printed, typed into the UAV's console laptop and seen one of the stupidest, most irresponsible, most threatening thing to conjure up that night on behalf of the raiders.

"I've been able to push a temporary patch into the system, let us display how many we're dealing with." The question of who exactly we were fighting had been the question of the last antsy hour as fires throughout the town were put off and the wounded were treated by equally bloody doctors and medics.

"Shoot me the number, hard and fast, Talia." I said as the Princess's men had dragged an intact body within the confines of the defenses. The man was an Imperial Army regular.

"Still 20,000 give or take what we just took out and burned."

The Princess had paled as she looked at us. "How- what?"

"We have something up above watching us princess," I said, kicking the dead man's helmet off. "now can you explain why we have Imperial Regulars marching with bandits and mercenaries?"

She had seemed just as taken aback by it as me, given that she was under threat of them.

"My fath-, I mean, Emperor Augustus ordered, upon losing Arnus, that all territory between Arnus and the Capital be burned, pillaged, and left useless in case of the enemy, you, tried to take them over… it appears some of these Imperial commanders saw fit to carry out his orders by falling in with bandits."

I cleared my throat. "Jesus Christ…" I looked up at her with tired green eyes, my hands numb. "Princess, I will not hold you responsible for this, but why in God's name will they not realize it is you that is leading the defense here?"

"Maybe I know too much. Maybe it's because we are assisting each other. Maybe they just don't know. Either way, my order of knights should be here in a two days."

"We might not even have two days, princess." I felt like I had burned my throat saying that. The gun smoke in the air was thick, weaved in with the smell of death.

"Itami!" I had barked across the way to the lieutenant, standing on the south gate wall, peering through his NVGs into the dark. "How's the perimeter looking?!"

He yelled down back to me. "Definitely an enemy build up. All of them!"

Lelei and Peters had been lining the entirety of the south wall with her concoction of white phosphorous imitation and what supply of C4 we had.

There was going to be hell to pay.

"No-! Wait! Enemy movement due direct south! Holy-!"

Kurata had peered out at the dark and saw a human wall that did not act in our favor. It acted in theirs.

I ran up only to confirm what everyone posted had saw:

A block of armored men, the width of the entire south wall, easily all those 20,000 deep.

They wanted us dead beyond words.

The march was like nothing else any of us had ever heard, a unified body that was far more intimidating than any Imperial division we'd seen yet. And they chanted deep, they chanted in sync, and they sang for the girl that was carved, ruined, and crucified on her own halberd.

Rory had been held up like a banner, covered with blood, and the look on her face could not be any happier.

Lelei had given technical words as we looked in horror, not only at the army coming toward us, but the banner they marched with and for.

"She cannot die, but she can be constrained."

I pointed at Lelei as our guns had been relocked and reloaded.

"How true is that?"

"Of the upmost honesty." she responded. "I advise shooting her loose."

All of us had looked at her. Kuro had been forced to chop her hair off with a knife, her bangs now short, her gaze blank and that of a warfighter she so desperately wanted to avoid becoming.

"We can't do that." she said, tears forming on her eyes, her lips quivering. "Please, god, I can't-"

She was near a thousand years old, as we discovered, but still, she looked like a kid.

We shouldn't shoot at kids.

 _ **We can't shoot at kids.**_

Silently, and very subtly, Shino had seized Masterson's M95 as she looked out at the distance, toward Rory, aiming before we knew what she was planning.

She did not care. She wanted to be like us: hardcore.

What is the image of the Ranger but to be the one that does what no one else did?

Itami had reached out for her, but she pulled the trigger before he could stop her.

One loud bang and Rory's right arm had come off entirely, allowing her to fall free from the crucifixion from her weapon and fall into the ground, disappearing into the mass of soldiers.

Itami had taken her arm as Masterson reclaimed his weapon. _**"What the fuck-!"**_

There was no time to complete his thoughts as Rory rose again, as if nothing had happened, in the middle of that mass and reclaimed her weapon all the same, the realization that she was not dead hitting the men just as hard as if they had been shot.

With that, the rush came, toward Rory out in the distance, toward us.

Shino's look in her eyes had been the same as always, as if she didn't fully acknowledge that she had just done what we had seen her done in full clarity.

Chuka had let loose another flurry of arrows before any of us had even opened fire, Peters coming back with Lelei riding on his much faster form.

"Explosives set, sir!"

" **We'll deal with this later!** We're moving! Everyone let go the mag in their guns and then vacate! _**Now!**_ " I screamed as I did just that, my MCR's barrel going red under the constant use.

Even as men fell in the front, the raiders and Imperials took a calm that they needed: ignoring the chaos, embracing it, coming toward us as ranks after ranks fell and they did not care.

They were not human, even with a god in their ranks just chopping them in half like it was nothing.

Our guns clicked empty as we reconvened at the bottom of the ruined south gate, the boulder still smoking as the princess stood there, frozen, the army just outside the gate and still marching. She was the only one left. Everyone else had followed our orders and started lining the streets for warfare.

Itami had thrown her over his back as she was non-responsive, all of us running away back toward the first block of this town, a straight shot still at the gate.

This had not been before Harris had taken a bolt to his back.

The sound of it hitting his muscle suit was distinctive: like a tire being punctured, but not popping, the man himself shuttering as his right shoulder was hit and connected with flesh. He collapsed on the ground for but a second before dragging himself behind the cover of a building with the rest of us, Doc, even with his mouth bleeding from his own mistakes, tearing the bolt out with little trouble and shooting biofoam into the wound, a painful experience for Harris as it burned, aim now slack.

"You okay soldier?" I yelled across the street as the army came and started setting up its ladders to climb over the south wall, men making their way through the gate and into the first line's last defensive option set up by the original defenders.

"I'll be better when I see the damn fireworks." he yelled as he let loose a few rounds down range, hitting a few raiders in the chest and sending them down.

"Close your ears, girl." Peter had said to the sorceress on his back.

I waited with the clicker of the C4 very diligently, until enough were through to start breaking down the backup gates and defenses before they were truly in Italica.

It was our turn to make the earth shake.

Pina had gotten off Itami's back as RCT3 had taken cover further down the road, a perfect view for a perfect detonation:

Emerson squeezed the clacker in his hands once, and waited three seconds as he ducked back behind the building.

To say that the entire south wall had exploded, up and down, had been an understatement.

It was once described to the princess that, upon the first attacks, surviving commanders had thought Arnus Hill was exploding with their armies.

Seeing was believing, and she had seen what they had felt, saw, and knew what had happened to the Imperial armies and the allied units.

The correct word, was that the south wall in its entirety, had been destroyed with such force, that it cracked the Earth, the air, and the sky.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 10**_

 _ **The Special Region –Arnus Hill - Camp Omega – Joint Marine-JSDF Command**_

* * *

Seismic activity was something that both the Marines and the Japanese knew intimately, so equipment had been shipped over the Gates for the express purpose of observing and collecting data of the new world.

However they were quiet machines in the offices of the Marine and JSDF Command on Arnus Hill. Up until today, of course.

The needles on them had gone haywire while Colonel Pierce had been enjoying a cup of coffee, reading the reports of the JSDF armored move out to this village that RCT3 and 2nd Lieutenant Emerson had found.

He looked over to them at distress as a few of the personnel did the same.

The actual designated geologist had taken a few seconds to register what was happening, he shouting both English and Japanese to the scientific counterparts of his as they gathered around the machine.

The activity was easy to read, and very incredible to hear.

"Sixty kilometers northwest… 2.1 on the Richter scale…"

Pierce's old eyes had lit up as he remembered who was out that way. He had a reason to take the Rangers seriously, seeing as they had gotten them into that mess in the first place.

The Japanese had been faster on the trigger, all air cavalry troops being summoned ASAP.

With that he had taken Major Sevson and Master Sergeant Freeman aside in the office, looking at them both, dead serious.

"Recall any Marines outside the camp. All 7th MEU's combat teams are deploying. _**Now.**_ "


	8. 1-5: The Horror

A/N: Here is where it changes into my territory. For maximum effect, MW2 soundtrack for Boneyard and Contingency in the background when a song isn't specified. Anyway, let's watch and see me completely disregard the T rating and give into what Gate's carnage should've been at max.

Welcome to Hell folks.

* * *

 ** _Section 1-5_**

* * *

The export variant of the CH-47M "Super Chinook" that had been bought by the JSDF very recently, had found itself in the territory of Arnus, and simply left to collect dust until the call for support originating from Italica was phoned in.

It was the 2025 version of a transport helicopter that had seen one of the longest service records across all machines of war, and it had been dependable enough to be one of the vehicles that saw war across two worlds, be it only as a transporter able to haul Abrams tanks via lifting it by a tether and a platform.

Not that Wilbur had ever expected to have that happen to Kingdom Come.

But as things often turn out, the impossible always happens in reality.

Only in fiction does things ever have to make sense, as was the words of American military fiction writer Tom Clancy.

If only he had lived to see what the American military had been doing today…

Wilbur had slapped on his green helmet as he had been handed off a standard issue M4, just in case if the events of today had gotten hairy.

* * *

 _ **D+Day + 10**_

 _ **The Gate – Camp Omega – Helicopter Staging Point**_

* * *

He had been woken from his bed and yelled at to get set for a combat mission, and five minutes later he had clambered on into Kingdom Come as a platform was being slid beneath it and locked in place, a Chinook that would've been his ferryman warming up with what seemed to be a hundred other choppers underneath the coming morning sun.

Japanese Hueys and Cobras, American Blackhawks, even the damned Harriers without a landing strip had been using their VTOL capabilities to get ready. They were being loaded for bear. Hard.

As he had stood from Kingdom Come's hatch and saw the Marines and the JSDF troops pile into their squads, and then into their running choppers, he had pointed one man out:

"You! What in the bloody hell is happening?!"

"JSDF Fourth Combat Team is getting ready to move. The entire MEU is moving out with them to this town west of here. We're bringing the armored element... Didn't you know?"

"No one ever tells me nothing!"

Wilbur had sunk back into his seat.

The entire god damn MEU… or, at least, the combat portion of it…

"Ho-lee fuck."

The tank crew looked up at him.

"Tell me about it." the loader agreed.

Outside a particular Marine had hollered and yelled:

"Someone go get the Wagner!"

Wilbur's look had spoken of: 'You damn yanks', but otherwise he had been ecstatic. Finally, some real action, and this was across the board and Marines and the JSDF boarded their planes. Looking through the targeting optics and their less than high definition silhouettes, Wilbur wasn't quite sure who was who.

But he wasn't given much time to consider the analogies, the psychological and metaphorical significance of that as the sound of hooks being latched on and rope being strained abounded around them.

The crew had held onto and braced themselves in the inside as the entire metal machine was hauled off the ground.

The Japanese needed little arguments to deploy: RCT3 was in trouble, and they were going there with the only air cav unit they had.

The Americans on the other hand… Italica had been a city of major strategic importance, according to initial reports, and it was, perhaps, the next logical main point to take over from Arnus Hill. The SDF, as much as the JSDF had enjoyed and tried to imitate the Marines in conduct and training recently, were simply, at the end of it, just a Defense Force unless they proved themselves otherwise.

Today, the Marines did what they were trained to do as they returned to base from the boring patrols outside of Arnus, piled themselves into the choppers that hadn't been catering to the tanks, and had, on the last minute, set up the real speakers on one of the fifteen or so choppers ferrying combat ready troops on the American side.

It was mutually agreed, back and forth, that as this easily thirty strong helicopter and jump jet force had readied their engines and got set, a very certain musical connotation would be with them today.

Major Sevson had taken to the lead chopper as Overlord stayed behind, the Marines cheering and roaring from their exposed Black Hawks, the sound of rotors cutting through the early morning air highlight only by the unkind white lights of the staging area.

The Marines had hated the Rangers on the basis they were Army, but hate was a strong word, and it was a hate only allowed because, despite it all, they were comrades in arms: Americans through and through. Only they were allowed to do so.

God help any Imperial who tried to say otherwise.

The Harrier jump jets were just shy of being replaced entirely by the F-35s now being deployed throughout America's armed services, but the AV-8s tried and true capabilities of operation on such limited ground, as was the case of Arnus and its currently inoperable air field, had been valid enough for the Harriers to make their last deployment one which took them to another world.

They were given a place on the helicopter pads all the same as the air field was being flattened out and constructed, and here they roared to life with their full combat loads.

There had been five Harriers ready to go, one already having levitated up due to its VTOL capabilities and blasted off toward Italica with simply GAU cannons on its hardpoints and a surveillance kit on its fuselage.

Overlord had called that one out to preform recon on force composition, and in five to ten minutes something would be revealed as to what was happening in Italica.

The Abrams tanks were starting to be airlifted up in the sky, the swinging of it no factor due to them being locked down on platforms underneath the Chinooks, the only thing left was for the infantry to fully move out, piling by the dozens into choppers that had looked like an invasion force amassing.

"Can anyone raise Hitman?" Pierce had asked before he left his Major.

The Major had shook his head. "Negative, Overlord, they been clamoring for reinforcements all night, and now that they're coming, we ain't heard no word from them ever since the Richter scale went off."

The Colonel held out his hand and the Major took it from the Black Hawk's passenger bay. "Leave none of them behind, Major."

"Of course." Sevson had responded, not exactly sure what Overlord had been referring too: The enemy, or the Rangers.

Though Emerson and Itami had both radioed in separately for reinforcements, Itami's message had made clear of one particular detail that the JSDF hadn't given out to the Americans yet as the air cav of the JSDF formed at attention before Commander Hazawa and the Special Task Forces 4th Combat Team's leader.

"A request for support has been received from RCT3 on behalf of Miss Pina Co Lada, the representative of Italica and of Imperial royalty! The Fourth Combat team will answer! As of right now Italica is under heavy siege by forces unknown! RCT3 nor the American Ranger team have yet to call back in, this we have to get ready for heavy, combat!"

 _ **"OOrah!"**_ the assembled JSDF soldiers had imitated the Marines.

"We believe these forces to be the remnant of the attacks against this base in the last eleven days! So we already kicked their asses once! We can do it again!"

 _ **"Oorah!"**_

The combat team leader had those words only to say as he waved his men off, to their choppers, the sound of boots on concrete rhythmic, and all too hypnotizing.

Those that remained on base had accepted their fate, but Overlord, in his marching back to the command building's CiC had stayed both the Japanese and American personnel.

Everyone wanted to go to battle; it was an easy war to fight, almost unfair, and thus, to them, it was fun.

And everyone wanted to have fun.

Sergeant Major Freeman had got the rest of his men into either the Chinooks or the Black Hawks, all of them set and ready for war as he had hung out the leading Black Hawk's passenger bay and leaned from it, arm tight around a bar on the inside as the Black Hawk with all its power wanted to go into the sky.

Every single chopper minus the tank carrying Chinooks had been on the ground, just waiting, the JSDF and Marine Cobras twirling up their guns and double checking the arms on their rocket pods.

Overlord had stepped into the busy command center, cameras and feeds from various helicopters and even people being fed back to the place where both the Japanese and the Americans worked together for this unsung war.

He had pushed down on his own microphone as he had taken a seat besides Hazawa. "This is Overlord Actual, standby as final headcount takes place."

Hazawa had been getting a read from the recon Harrier, already over a burning Italica: the scan revealing that a good southern chunk of the city had been buried underneath smoke and rubble, but even then the ground was alive with people trying to clamber over: all of them Raiders.

Blips of light had appeared on the streets though: firearms.

The feed was there and for all to see.

"Well, at least they're still alive." Hazawa had mumbled.

"At least, some of them." Overlord had been less than expecting. One of the CiC personnel had shouted a number at him: 550.

"In regards to what?"

"550 Marines."

Hazawa had looked shock at the Colonel, but made nothing of it. The Japanese were only sending eighty men out.

"….?!" Another of the command center personnel had shouted within his mouth. The Colonel looked at him expectantly in the room of darkened tones and screens. "We have a read upwards of 20,000 hostiles."

The Colonel had hid his emotions with this, a snarl coming across his lips. Eighty thousand more than the initial counter attack and the Ginza Incident combined.

"After the Harriers evac Winchester for the first time, load them up with Napalm."

Hazawa had been the one to say that, which surprised the Americans.

"What?" Overlord had asked.

"We've been brewing Napalm onsite, figured we might need them to burn out dragon nests, or something. I think this use is appropriate."

And appropriate it was.

"Rapier One is asking for permission to engage."

Rapier had been the names of the Harriers. Overlord nodded at the AWACS, which had been temporarily mounted inside of the command center, and Hazawa confirmed with a low tone: "All Harriers are cleared to engage upon contact. Same goes for all helicopter gunships. I want all transport craft to stay on station as well, their onboard armaments should befit the situation well enough."

With another press, Pierce's voice reached the ears of all. "To all Marine and JSDF call signs, you are clear for dust off. Authenticate Stargaze. May Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore smile upon us all."

With the great push of wind outside, a flock of black and camouflaged helicopters had taken off from Arnus, into the gooey night sky.

The roar of thunder had been the constant beating of the helicopter's rotors, as the cry of men and women was heard for miles around.

* * *

Major Isaiah Sevson had been a man who had lived for moments like these: his back toward the rising sun toward the darkness of the world majorly undiscovered by modern man and his marines: flying above it at nearly a hundred feet up, legs dangling over as the Earth itself passed them by.

The Marines would make their first combat mission today with the JSDF's detachment, and they would do what they were trained to do:

Kill.

The Blackhawks had been faster than the Hueys and the Chinooks, who had been carrying the armored elements of the MEU rather shakily enough that one particular tank commander had opened up his hatch and covered a part of his turret with puke, but asides from him, there had been no unnerved stomachs or troubled guts otherwise.

Nothing stopping them save time itself.

The speed of all of the helicopters had been capped to be only as fast as the Chinooks had been, a respectable speed that kept them seven or so mikes from Italica.

Black Hawks, Hueys, Cobras, Little Birds, Chinooks; there was not one bird up that did not have a weapon itself, asides from the, in the case of the Chinooks, fifty Marines it carried.

Five Harriers had blown back overhead, evac Winchester, all munitions for the first run spent: all the way down to their cannons.

"This is Rapier Lead to Valkyrie flight, Valkyrie, you read?"

The Japanese commander of the Fourth Combat Team had answered. "Go ahead Valkyrie."

The Yeager drawl of the pilot was noted. "Be advised, we had eyes on heavy infantry presence. You will need more ammo. Rapier out."

The Harriers' Doppler effect had rung out from their engines as they disappeared back to Arnus for rearm and refit, probably soon enough that they would get there again before the choppers did.

Still, it was all lining up perfectly.

The mood, the atmosphere, the people, even the rifles themselves. They had been an ode to a type of warfare made in a Vietnam long ago, which they were going to bring here.

Freeman had rode out of his Black Hawk like a big god damned superhero, half his body on steel, the other in the air.

Their backs had been toward the blood red sunrise.

The radio had kicked in above the sound of wind and beating air. "This is Valkyrie Lead. Assassin Actual, do I have the go ahead for psyop?"

The men in the lead chopper cheered as they heard the question, locking and loading, the M134 minigun spinning up as some of the men hung their legs off the side of the Black Hawk.

Without question, those who were sitting had sat on their helmets.

A phenomenon carried out between every soldier who was in the know.

"This is Assassin Actual, you are cleared for psyop. Over." This particular chopper had the control unit for all the speakers across those equipped on the American choppers. Freeman gave a nod to the radioman.

* * *

 _ **Now playing:**_

 _ **Richard Wagner – The Intro of Act 3 of Die Walküre – Ride of the Valkyries**_

* * *

"This is Valkyrie 1-6. We have eyes on the enemy's backline. Assassin how copy?" The Japanese chopper had seen what had been revealed in the morning light: the backlines of that 20,000 strong army of brigands and raiders. Sevson had gotten his radio as he ducked back in.

Command time.

"Bravo One through Five. You are now tasked with safeguarding the Abrams as they drop behind the enemy's frontline. Keep them from swarming the tanks. How copy?"

"Littlebirds will keep them covered!" Bravo had responded as the Little Birds had dropped behind the Chinooks carrying the Abrams.

The music blared with the conduction of a war theme that had spanned back decades, but had come to be associated with the notion of helicopter air assault.

Like the myths that the song had been wrote about, the riders of Valhalla had come in their iron Pegasus.

The brigand and raider back line hadn't known where that music was coming, nor what instruments had played from the heavens, but as they turned around to try and locate that odd sound they saw the black mass in the sky: thirty plus strange flying machines coming right over them: four of them carrying four massive beasts on platforms beneath them.

Those four beasts were coming their way as the rest of the mystical flying objects went right over their heads with such wind gusts, one might've mistaken it for elven magic.

But magic this was not.

"Punch it!" Wilbur had gotten over his puking enough to steel himself in his seat as the Chinooks brought the Abrams several dozen feet off the ground about three hundred meters away from the mass of men in the back line, bored once, but now petrified.

The M1A1 had roared to life as the reverse was hit, the tank rolling off the platform in midflight and hitting the ground with such heavy shock, it made the dirt beneath it crack, skidding to a stop as their crews shook in their seats.

As the Kingdom Come had heaved and stopped, Wilbur hit his optics to clear up, and what they saw was at least a kilometer and more deep army of men leading all the way up to Italica, which had been burning in the background.

"H.E! Now!" Wilbur yelled as he popped open his hatch and loaded his M2 browning.

The rest of the Warlords had made a line across as they fell out of their platforms, the Chinooks backing off back toward Arnus to bring ammo if needed, the Little Birds hovering above them like mosquitos, close enough to the ground for the pilots to actually load firearms themselves to fire out their cockpit.

The high explosive shell was rammed in by the loader, the gate up and the hammer slammed down.

"Gunner fire at will!" The Englishman yelled, his thumbs on the trigger of the M2, thousands and thousands of men now before him, just ready to feel the full might of Yankee Doodle Dandy's armored might.

The other Warlords had waited for Kingdom Come.

They fired the first shot on this side of the Gate, they wouldn't be the last.

The whirring the Little Birds guns spinning up had waited as well, and with one great boom again, a red star of explosive energy went out, and instead of travelling miles, it had only traveled a bare half a kilometer: spitting distance.

Once again, Kingdom Come would kick off the carnage.

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

 _ **The Special Region – Italica**_

* * *

Rory had approached me and Itami when we were getting our gear ready, before it had all gone fubar, while I had been waiting for my muscle suit to fully wrap around me, and suction me up. He had been busy fitting his NVGs.

 _"Why are you helping out the Princess of an empire which is technically your enemy?"_

 _She asked us both, and we gave two different answers at the end of it._

 _Itami had coughed into his fist. He'd been smoking again. "To protect the people of this town."_

 _She looked at me. "The very same reason."_

 _"Do you really mean that?"_

 _Itami had been silent as he adjusted the bolts on his helmet, struggling with it. I answered. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"_

 _She had opened her hands, unimpressed, taking Itami's helmet for him to mount the NVGs._

 _"Are you interested in our motives, Rory?" he asked as he started finally putting the NVGs together._

 _"Emroy is many things, but he is also the God of War. He does not condemn the act of killing. For that reason alone, your motive is what will define you in his eyes." she looked back at me, enjoying holding Itami's helmet. "Falsehood and deceit will contaminate your soul."_

 _Itami had finally gotten it, taking the helmet back and putting it on his head. "Like Kay said, it doesn't really matter… It is not a lie that we will protect this town and its people. But we have another thing: To prove that it is better to get along with us than to fight with us."_

 _Rory saw the slant in my eyebrows as he said that, and I knew she saw it, expecting another answer from me._

 _"In my opinion, we're here to make them owe us."_

"You owe me." had been Bannon's words as she punted a piece of a house off of me, our muscle suits and armor saving us as I wiped the debris off of me with my arms.

Any cloth that was still on us had been burned and ruined; we having been way too close to that explosion.

The explosion brought quiet however, as much as it did death: after that gigantic boom of a proportion that we had no right to survive being two blocks down.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me up, bringing me face to face with her.

"Lisa, your eye." A piece of the wall had punched through her helmet, her left eye closed tight and bleeding because of it.

I had lost my MCR in that rush, leaving me with only the .45 on my hip, it was in my hands automatically as we stepped, limped back onto the street, before all that we had done:

The south wall was simply not there: replaced by mountains of debris and what was presumably pieces of people, and for a good thirty seconds after the explosion, I had remembered before a house had come down on me, that it was raining architecture and gore.

Nearly 20,000 people had been trying to climb over and get through that wall, and we blew it up along with a good chunk of the south wall skimming buildings.

Bannon had panted as she took my arm and drew me away as I could not tear my gaze away from the burning wreckages of a town that once was. Desolation, devastation, what a mess we made when it all went wrong.

Eventually we had broken back ever further into Italica, the town having taken hits of debris that came downward, shops and houses roofs gone, windows all blown out. Masterson had been stacked ontop of a pile of rubble with his 870 out.

"No casualties sir!" Masterson had burn marks on his suit, but he seemed fine. It never was the case however. "but Doc has a piece of wood in his leg, Loke has a broke arm, Black is deaf and Ramirez is incapacitated."

I nodded at him as I realized I hadn't been any better, a limp to my leg that hadn't been there before that made me stumble, two of my Rangers throwing me over their shoulders and bringing me behind our next defensive line.

Didn't feel like anything was hit, or broke, or bleeding, but I was limping all the same as I saw my men drag out barbed wire across the destroyed streets, as dirty and broken as everyone else.

I hacked out onto the ground: I tasted blood.

Itami had seen this to as RCT3 rendezvoused. They had been further away from the explosion, but dust had still ruined their uniforms.

Lelei had, with dear life, had held onto Peters after she shielded her ears from the explosion, her gaze dazed.

Peters had handed the sorceress off to Kuro as she ran back to the place where we had put all of the civilians: the castle.

" _ **What in the blazes was that?!"**_ I yelled at Peters.

He shrugged, as he found out his MCR was cracked down the action, retrieving his M16 instead.

"Overestimation sir!" he answered back.

How much C4 did we have? And for that matter, how much did Lelei put into the solution she had made? What the fuck was it anyway?

An answer for another time.

This 1911 that was now my sole weapon had been different than my M9A3, but it was a heavy weapon from a more civilized time. Perhaps this kind of time.

Handed off my 6.8 mags to someone who actually had a rifle that could use them, dropping the carrier and leaving me with three .45 single stack magazines for the M45, one of them already loaded.

"We have four more stops from here until the castle, then from there the Humvees can start opening up." Bannon had yelled as Doc had crudely applied a headwrapping bandage over half of her head, slicing a hole for her ear through the white mass, a bundle of red burning through where her eye was.

"Argh!" Doc had tried to walk away, only to fall on the floor. "God dammit!"

Harris had thrown our Doc over his shoulder, the man screaming some obscenities about how he should've just joined the Red Cross.

"I think he's better off mounted on a gun anyway at this point." I muttered, pulling back the slide and holding the round in, the metal slapping back after I hit the release.

"Yeah. We all are." Bannon had said as she reaffirmed that her one usable eye was working still, aiming down the sights of her MCR.

There was soot and ash in the air as if there had been a volcano exploding, a shadow on the dying moon above.

"Movement bearing one-eighty!" Black had raised his SR25, scope having been sheered off and he not being to gauge his volume due to the fact his ears were bleeding. He hadn't been wearing a helmet with its ear protection for a more comfortable aim. He paid for it, having been so close. "Ah! They won't give up!"

"Engage!" I shouted as I aimed down range with the pistol, RCT3 more able than us to engage, pushing us back.

"Push your men back, Kay, we'll fall back when we can so you can cover us. You copy Hitman Actual?" I flipped up on the safety of my 1911 as Itami barred against my chest, his hand brushing against my face and clearing the dust and debris from my skin, the NVGs long having been overloaded and ruined.

RCT3 had exchanged places with us, more ready than we had been, battered and ruined.

I knew better, my men needed as much breather as they could, and RCT3 was offering it.

The first bandits had been silhouettes coming out of the smoke, clambering out dazed, like zombies.

RCT3 had no hesitation bringing them down to the Earth.

"Hitman! To the second fall back point! Come on!"

So my squad had clambered themselves to the second point, leaving an open point in the barbed wire for RCT3 to retreat through, breathing in ash and dust.

As RCT3 had started taking shots at the stragglers initially coming through, Itami had to wonder if, in their own world, if they were obligated to fire, to cut down an enemy so hopeless. The laws of war are tricky like that, he realized, as he shouldered his ash ruined rifle and pulled the trigger at a man walking towards them with his sword as a walking stick, not hesitating to put the man down after a bullet blew his forehead out and through, his body falling back first, like a rock.

The princess had long since retreated with the rest of the survivors under the auspices of organizing those who could fight, but after seeing that giant explosion right before her eyes, she simply did not want to see any further horrors of the men from another world.

Shino, in all of her infinite rage, had been the only one to go full auto, sweeping against broken raiders with automatic fire: overkill, essentially.

Pops yelled at her, "Conserve your ammunition!"

It was a valid point, and she had flicked the fire selector to the appropriate setting, but still, she had been going back and forth between targets before the rest of RCT3 could even fathom.

Masterson had stayed behind, if only because he didn't want to move with his 870.

He motioned over to Itami as he had started to slowly back off with the rest of his team. "Burger King." he said in regards to Shino.

He and Kurata had been dumbfounded by what he meant.

What he had he meant, as his dry humor kept him going back, was that Shino was a Born Killer.

She lost here senses as her rifle ran out of ammo in her mag, pushing up and over the barbed wire: right toward a hulking man with a metal mask and a giant mace.

Under a different circumstances, the man would've been a threat: a freak of nature that was fit for his role, but that was not the case as a large splinter was lodged half way into his neck, only to be whammed all the way through by Shino as she jumped on him, killing the man.

A few of the more coherent raiders had seen her so close to them, so they charged her as best they could with their broken forms: the rest of RCT3 not wanting to fire out of the fear of blue on blue.

A sword had come down and her rifle had gone up to deflect, pushing the blow off of her and making the man weakly recoil backwards, her pistol brought up from her hip and blown into the man's stomach, she sidestepping another swipe at her before her second hit had fallen, her knife coming out with her other hand and stabbing downwards of the man's collar, his head blown off with the nine millimeter.

"Cover me!" Pops had yelled as he hopped the barrier as well, his rifle blowing a man's arm off as he tried to get on Shino's six o'clock as she pushed a man away and delivered a pistol shot past the metal of his armor and into his lungs.

No sooner then that had happened did the old man take Shino over his shoulders and run back over as the first renewed wave had come, Shino protesting audibly as she emptied her pistol, even when riding Pop's hold.

"Let me go!" Shino was thrown on the ground past the second defense line as the fire had returned to the air: the metallic gunshots ever more maddening.

The scale of their enemy was not something to be fully comprehended: 20,000 give or take.

Being overrun was an understatement.

But words did not kill, and RCT3 had opened up in the gray and dark of night toward the killing fields.

* * *

The dust had been like a cloud, and RCT3 had been covered in it as it slowly rolled out their way back to the final hold out: the castle grounds itself, every last warrior and fighter of the town having made a circle in between each of the armored vehicles, their guns ready for finality.

At least they had had guns, Emerson had thought, his .45 down to his last magazine, a spear in his hand as everyone else had been on the verge of going dry.

Fully loaded, each of them with several cans and boxes of ammo. Problem was how long they could hold them at bay: these broken human waves.

They were not told to count kills, to never think about killing, but it was what they were doing for the last desperate thirty minutes: All you need was kill, and kill was all they did.

Mindless, monotonous, maniacal killing. And they did not feel one way or another about it, most of them. They simply just did as any notion of tiredness was wiped from their bodies as inch by inch, body over body, dust to dust.

Arrows had fallen from the sky again, boulders from catapult, landing all around, and even in the enemy ranks to their benefit. Gas had been thrown out as men had melted into the earth, their skin going green and red and spotted as they died, eyes imploding, the horror of war before everyone.

Several of the Rangers and RCT3 had been out of action: hit by arrows, shrapnel, or driven mad by the unending cannon fodder that had been coming toward them, many of them behind the last line, holding their heads, screaming.

Emerson had been lucky enough to take a man by his neck and drag him back behind the last line, holding his neck just tight enough to keep him there, but not knock him out. He didn't see his face, didn't see what was behind the helmet, but he had shot a man that was rushing toward him with an axe to make doubly fucking sure that they knew what the .45 could do, holding it against the man's head as he had stood just in front of the lead defense line and held the pistol to the man's head.

The entire mass that was coming down the dusty roads had taken note, and stopped for just a second, giving enough time for the sand bagged down Humvees and other armored cars to load their guns, and let loose a hail of fire that had made mince meat of them all, the muzzle flashes becoming less and less evident as the sun rose overhead through the gun smoke.

The thing about death and violence is that, when it is being committed, there are no sides: just common humanity, the realizations that years and experiences were being ripped from Earth as easy as a man could move a finger, at a whim, with no remorse.

The proof was that the man that Emerson had held at gun point had seen a thousand of his comrades die before him so easily. He screamed loud enough that the metal of his helmet vibrated: of how he could do nothing as the storm was beaten back, one bullet at a time, but never failing to keep coming: a rush thousands and thousand just waiting, wanting, needing to be killed to understand the madness.

The grenade launcher that Black had remanned had made bodies fly, pieces of corpses splattering roofs and walls down the main way as the miniguns and the M2s blew men back, away, and in half: shields and armor buckling as barrel went hot and the last of the infantry weapons were expended.

No words, no commands, no duty: only survival.

Masterson's 870 racked as he tore the head off of an Imperial office in one blow, using it as a club as a man had ducked underneath all the bodies in the river of blood, beating his skull in as one of the original defenders had tossed him a shield and a sword, the shield coming down on the man's neck and decapitating them as sword and shields replaced guns amongst the Rangers and RCT3 still standing.

Emerson had pushed the man he had hostage out and down, the .45 going to the back of the man's helmet and being shot, the bullet shattering all pretenses of protecting the man had, his brain bucket now collecting blood as it slumped to the floor, the spear he had brought up as the Humvee gunners slowly ran out of ammo and tried their best to reload as fast as they could.

Too late though, too late.

Bannon had formed a shield wall with her men and some of the city defenders, holding the men down alleyway as the last of the grenades went over them and into that thousand man push against them, doing little but clear up space.

The enemy had all been funneled down one street, all the way to the castle, and all that force, all that push, had stood against barely a fraction of the manpower from another world.

Men in the backline of the raiders were inadvertently crushed, bones and body cracking and creaking in that giant mass, but it was a straight target: a line that could be used to great carnage.

Emerson's spear had been left in the face of one of the raiders as he tried to stab people from over the shield wall, heels digging into the stone bloodily.

The sound of thunder had stopped all the effort as all soldiers from each side had store right up into the sky.

It wasn't thunder.

Emerson had tried to make words in his mouth, but all he had made is a groan, some inhuman sound in his throat as if he was a prehistoric example, but his intent was clear.

It was the sound of a jet.

A Marine Harrier.

To the unknowing, the bumpy silhouette of a Harrier going at them head on had looked like a Wyrvern.

That being said, a Harrier had been, a clear straight lane to strafe, had been coming in hot:

Everyone had ran away in two directions: south or north. Those who tried to beat that thousand man mass back hadn't been able to do anything as the sound came closer, and closer.

Then, the beast roared with a shrill sound of metal being spun.

The impacts came before the sound as three GAU cannons of the recon Harrier had slowly slowed down to increase time on target, men suddenly being torn to shreds by the hundreds as the sound finally came hard and fast:

 _ **Brrrrrt.**_

An unending, unceasing sound that dropped the entire wave mostly in one go as the Harrier came nearly rooftop level and blazed off, circling back around for another run, killing enough of the frontal portion of the mass for the gunners to reload.

Everyone was beyond words now, and as much as Emerson had wanted to shout, as much as Masterson had wanted to yell that the cavalry was here, as much as Kuro wanted to cry, and Itami just wanted to yell into the air for all of this to stop, no words. Only actions, cries, groans, primordial sounds for a simpler age.

Their feet could not move forward, only back into that safe final defensive circle around the castle as the Harrier had lined up again and the gunners opened fire down the main way.

 _ **Brrrrrrrt.**_

Again, and the cobblestone of the street had been torn up just as butter did, buildings left standing shattered into pieces, raiders and pillagers trying to run away from the dragon that shot molten fire at them in the form of cannon rounds that evaporated flesh.

The men in the back did not understand what was happening, so they pushed forward still as the front knew too much: the two sides fought, but neither had come out of it as a third run had come.

 _ **Brrrrrrrt.**_

The loss of life was hard to describe, the absolute horror of seeing so many men torn up by 25 millimeter rounds, it stayed feet and took breath away as four more dragons, four more Harriers, had appeared in the gooey blue sky.

Emerson had accidently hit the windshield wipers in the Humvee as he stumbled for the radio, limping into its seat, and losing control of his body to wear and tear.

"This is Hitman Actual," his voice was on the verge of breaking. "who's our guardian angels up top?"

 _ **Brrrrrrrrrrrt.**_

The answer came in the form of a bored tone man. "This is Rapier squadron, we've got you covered Hitman. Reinforcements are inbound. Out."

* * *

 _ **Continuing:**_

 _ **Richard Wagner – The Intro of Act 3 of Die Walküre – Ride of the Valkyries**_

 _ **1.6 kilometers from Italica**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 6,000+**_

* * *

" **H.E ready! Send her out!"**

" _ **Firing!"**_

Kingdom Come had bucked as another shot rang out, sending men flying and dead on impact, the four tanks having formed an arrowhead like formation with Kingdome Come at the lead: its mineplow doubling as a plow against people.

Saved ammo that way as the Little Birds flew a hundred feet behind them and cleaned up those left behind as the four Abrams ran over people and fired at random.

Their objectives had been simple: kill them all.

The Warlords had been cutting a metal swath through the backline as the raiders did not know what to take of the metal beast but to run or try, with all their might, to strike at the tan metal as the tanks boomed and guzzled gas, treads becoming runny with mud and blood.

Wilbur's M4 had been a sword against a particularly lucky cavalry man whose horse had been run over, he being sent to on top of Kingdom Come.

The blow had knocked the gun out of his hand as he tried to duck back into the commander's hatch, but there was no need as the man was sliced in half, his torso going off the tank completely, his legs slumping down and eventually sliding off the back: leaving a red stain as the tanks kept running.

Wilbur had looked up as he redrew his pistol to a girl almost entirely naked:

"'Ey! You're that Rory lady!" he yelled, throwing off his jacket and giving it to the girl who was riding his tank's turret like it was nothing, her face as satisfied as ever.

She has basked herself in the leather of a man willing to kill so many with this mystical machine of war very handily, nodding as a thanks, her two arms waving at him.

"All tanks! Halt!" Rory had barely slid as all four tanks had come to a sudden stop, the Little Birds overshooting and circling back around to provide back up as the gunners and the turret never ceased to move: the coaxial, loader's, and main gun never ceasing to fire.

Men were screaming underneath the Abrams as they were crushed: some with their whole bodies, the other with appendages. The other tank commanders had popped their hatches and used their personal weapons to stop the screaming under their treads easily enough.

"Hey, little thing, I know like you're some god or something, but you going to be good up here?" Wilbur had asked inbetween another high explosive shot from Kingdom Come.

She smiled sweetly at Wilbur, her eyes reading of content. "I'll be fine, child. Just let this be my chariot! This is the most fun I've ever had in my life!"

Wilbur had shrugged, not caring otherwise. It was just too weird to really consider as he had used and hand signal to the other commanders to keep rolling forward.

Just by infantry alone, the four Warlords, all of them crews that had once worked with the oil companies back on Earth: Shell, BP, and Exxon Mobil, to name a few, had found themselves, by infantry alone, the most destructive tank crews that had ever lived.

And they rolled on with the Apostle of Death.

* * *

 _ **Over Italica**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 9,000+**_

* * *

The choppers had engaged, even as they flew over that giant mass of brigands, the helicopter gunners having a field day as, no matter what they did, no matter how far their guns turned, they could not miss.

The grenade launchers from the door guns of the Chinooks had opened up below as the M2s in their boots had lit up those that had survived, the Cobras from both the Marines and the GSDF doing as they did at Ginza: using their chain guns to write their signatures in men and earth, this time allowing rockets and high explosives loose before they had even gotten over Italica.

" _ **Assassin Actual. Hunter teams! Fan out and clear the southern front! Oscar sweep and confine the enemy down one corridor!"**_ Sevson had yelled out at the command, the appropriate gunship teams fanning out as the massive main cloud of Marines and GSDF personnel blew over the walls to where a flare was shot into the air: a castle that had been bathed in black ash.

"Assassin teams two through four, land and take that castle, locate the Rangers. All other teams, land at designated points inside the town and then push outward. Platoon leaders have tactical credence. You are free to engage any and all hostiles!"

It was at that moment that the door gunners were outshined by the Marines and the GSDF personnel with rifles, shooting out the doors of their helicopters with ease.

" _ **Run Hadji!"**_ a Marine had callously yelled as he fired his M4 down into the moving mass of raiders, unsure of where to go with the iron beasts above, spewing fire down on them, metal pineapples falling form the hands of Marines into clumps of cowering enemies.

"Overlord to all combat teams. Enemy combatant force observed to be around 20,000. Movement is widespread throughout city but main enemy concentration is down the south road. Field commanders make adjustments as necessary."

One of the Marine Chinooks had gotten right alongside the southern main road, the Mark19 grenade launcher blowing away holes in the concentration as Sevson observed the Harriers had returned and were on station two thousand feet up.

He snarled.

There hadn't been any safe LZs, but diligent peppering of potential spots had made the ground soft and safe enough for the Chinooks to touch down and the Black Hawks to start deploying lines of rope for their troops to rappel down on the still standing buildings.

Marines had largely been the ones to hit the floor first, the GSDF forces having stayed back a bit to the protest of their troops and hover over the standing walls, strafing any ballistas that could be used for anti-air weapons: arrows having been fired up at the metal machines to little effect minus scuffing the paint.

Fresh ammunition and weaponry hadn't even been the only extent of what the Marines brought to the table when their boots had touched ruined ground: they brought the fury of a force of nature.

God made the Marine in his image, and it was his will that made the first Marines go down, fangs out, and start gunning down brigands from the rooftops, the streets, door to door, house to house, one inch, one body, one mind and soul at a time.

"This is Assassin 2-3, have visual on Ranger chalk and RCT3 as of current. Deploying to assist."

At least five choppers had gone to the center and started deploying troops, pushing out and forward from the tired defense line, the grey and green silhouettes of the Rangers and RCT3 still there, as dirt looking as the surviving town defenders who were staring up at awe at the operation happening around them.

Sevson's chopper circled around the chopper as a Marine Scout Sniper team had made their Little Bird land on top of the castle itself, and set up quickly.

The first of the shots from the snipers had been fast and rapid. Too many targets, too little space.

There was not one shot that missed as it rang out from the tower, the first Marines touching down in the defensive circle as the civilians looked at awe: great metal beasts spewing out even more of these men from the Gate.

Master Sergeant Freeman had been the first on the ground, being greeted by a hobbling Emerson, the man falling into his arms as the marines replaced the gunners and them in the defensive position, a lone GSDF Huey having landed as well, spitting out JSDF soldiers to tend to RCT3.

"Set up a CP here! Medic! Medic!" Freeman had yelled, several combat medics already rushing toward the grey muscle suited Rangers and RCT3.

The sun rose over this proud castle that once stood for the Empire, and even as Princess Pina Co Lada tried to yell at the men to stop and look what they were stepping on: Imperial territory, no one listened as the wind chill of the choppers took hold over her and her lieutenant, weak and weary.

"Monsters…" her lieutenant said as she desperately held onto her master's shoulder.

She had agreed as she grasped herself and rubbed the cold that wouldn't go away: "Absolute violence, that no one can withstand."

A JSDF medic had tried to tend to a man whose hands had been rubbed raw and bleeding, but he had been screaming incoherently, rocking back and forth.

"The power to crush everything: a power that denies pride, honor, sanity… are the Gods mocking us? Are they gods?" she had said, in her language. One of the marines had noted how important she looked and heard her.

The man was from Crystal City, not too far from DC, he had seen politicians rise and fall and try to play king in a nation where the people ruled. He had seen good people destroyed by slander and bad people rise to the highest of offices, and vice versa. The one thing that kept them all equal to each other: to the citizens of the United States and indeed the world, was that they were human.

He had raised his rifle down range at the main street, many, many, many thousands still coming, but he had looked at the two women of pedigree. "No, ma'am," he said in her language. "We're only human. _**Oorah!**_ "

The man disappeared into the crowd of soldiers as another firing line was formed, a Cobra running a strafing run with great explosive effect that sent the wind down toward the castle and blew dust and debris past the Marines, who stood like statues.

"Engage!" yelled the platoon leader, and they did, a stream of fire from their M4s a cacophony that added to that orchestra of modern military madness.

In another world, in another life, maybe she would've thought humans frail and weak, worthless, compared to these machines of war. But that soldier was as much as a human as her. She had seen female soldiers there, hell, several of them had fought throughout the night with her from the men in tan and green.

They were only humans, and that scared the hell out of her as she slowly limped her way back into the castle with the remaining knights of her order.

Sevson himself had gotten off, M45 in hand, as the chopper had taken off and a radio set was placed in the middle of that circle, the sound of battle fully set in, Emerson sat down on a raised stretcher as he still, weakly, was ordering where was what.

Sevson had seen him, and Emerson had looked back.

The green eyes of his were cold and told the Major: _ **I started this battle, I will finish it.**_

* * *

 _ **Italica**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 1,000+ KIA**_

* * *

There were two battles forming: inside and outside the city.

A pair of Cobras had been wise enough to unlease a salvo of TOW missiles against the two remaining entrances: East and West, collapsing them to cut off reinforcements from the outside.

On the outside more than a hundred thousand or more remained, the other half in the city, wisely getting off the street as the iron pegasi rained down from above and chopped up men like grass, completely accurate, not even touching the men they were allied with.

The battle plan had simply been this: gunships that were not clearing the streets for the marines to go door to door, alley to alley, had been funneling all remaining forces from the outside toward the remains of the south wall as the tanks had pushed them up: compressing them like a patty of beef.

To make sure of that, the Harriers let loose canisters of Napalm to make a wall of continually burning hellfire parallel to the east and west of the south wall.

These brigands, these raiders, these Imperials were truly going to hell.

"This is Hunter Lead, do we have a confirmed, free for all on the ROE?" The lead American Cobra had asked as he circled the town, corralling those skimming the walls inwards for the remaining Little Birds and GSDF Cobras to deal with, the JSDF slowly reclaiming the walls themselves… or rather, what was left of it.

"Overlord. Confirmed Hunter, all helicopter gunships are hot on all hostiles. Do not prioritize, everyone and everything is a target. Overlord out."

The gunner of Hunter Lead, shark teeth on its nose, had looked excitedly back at the pilot. The pilot nodded, confirming the order. "Target practice!"

Even the transport choppers had been getting in on the actions, Hueys, Black Hawks, and Chinooks going low against the ground, buzzing and sawing off the ranks with their gunners: more than enough for anything, and low enough for them to get hit by arrows that bounced off, thrown rocks to bounce off the window panes, and for the copilots to shoot out their windows with their sidearms.

The Harriers and their cannons had sawn off the remaining artillery to pieces as men tried to run, but in their madness all they could do was stand and fight and die beneath the scrutiny of these iron beasts.

Arrows, sticks, whatever they could throw.

Hopelessness.

And the Ride of the Valkyries, which still played on in all of its might, bringing with it the sound that Germany invaded Poland to, America to Vietnam, had revealed itself to be an inherent bloody one.

The gunner had let loose a flurry of rockets against a mass trying to run through the napalm.

"Hot damn!"

* * *

 _ **Italica**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 3,500+ KIA**_

* * *

Smart men can be rendered mad, so when the iron beasts from the sky came, General Hebron, commander of the "Emperor's Augustus Legion Populi", had lost his mind.

He thought it would've been so easy to hire the raiders, the bandits, and ride on to Italica to render it useless to the coming men, to take out the men in green, the men in tan, in one go, it was to be a victory beyond words: the first victory against these men.

At least they had rendered Italica rubble for now… but perhaps that was no matter, it only took these people a night to fortify Arnus to be nigh impenetrable, the only attack left that could be carried out was… expensive, at best.

More men in tan had started kicking in doors in their building, it was only a matter of time before they found him and his command staff.

He yelled out as he grabbed his sword. "For Emperor Augustus!"

The Marines had heard this as they stacked up, and instead of kicking in the door, they simply prepped a door charge, and blew it.

General Hebron never saw the boot stomp on his face.

* * *

 _ **Half a kilometer from Italica**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 5,000+ KIA**_

* * *

In the great wisdom of tankers past come to present, Warlord One, the "We Came as Romans" had stopped firing ammo all together and conserved the many more rounds they still had, instead opting to simply run them all over.

Wilbur had closed and opened his hatch after they had run through a catapault, very successfully decimating the enemy's backline as the only way the enemy had left to run was forward with them: to Italica.

The Harriers had been coming back and forth at around the clock intervals, one Harrier constantly rotating with another while dropping napalm canisters, extending this highway to hell that the Warlords kept pushing them all through.

"Enjoying the ride miss!?" Wilbur had seen Rory try out the loader's machine gun from his hatch, sitting on his shoulders as both of them laughed manically.

" _ **I'm enjoying the death! The destruction!"**_

Her Halberd had been stuck in one of Kingdom Come's grills for fuel and water, being held up like a flag pole, a sign for Emroy.

The Little Birds had kept coming and coming over them with strafing runs, dropping hot casings on them, but Rory had not cared. Any burn marks on her had immediately faded.

* * *

 **Remains of South Gate – Italica**

 **Estimated Casualties: 7,300+ KIA**

* * *

Masterson had still been good to fight, along with some of his soldiers, and when they were giving new weapons and new armor to throw over their muscle suits, they came back to where it all began, the remnants of mustard gas all gone as the ash cloud dissipated due to the wind of the ever present choppers, raining brass and bullets from above.

His 870 boomed as he took out another horse and its scrambling rider, a good congregation of brigands trying to get out of the city over the bodies and debris.

"Harris! Take the 240 up! Now!"

The football player had fired the LMG from the hip, uncaring, Marines had been behind them, supporting them clearing each building to building until the last remaining buildings had been destroyed rubble from the explosion.

Men were cut down with the sound of a noisy clatter of the machine gun, however one group in particular saved themselves: Green hair, Native American looking, war paint on her face a feather on her ear.

Her hands had been out and so the bullets never hit her.

Masterson had taken out his Bowie knife upon seeing it, the QB that Harris once was running at the girl unable to be touched by projectile weapons.

Using that same magic Harris had been blown back to little effect, but providing a shield for Masterson to bypass him and punch the girl's face with his left palm, when she had gotten on her back, stabbed and scratched by some rubble, Masterson's knife had fallen right besides her head: barely slicing her ear as the Marines and Harris cleared the way forward.

The sorceress knew it was over.

"This is Hitman 2-1 to Hitman Actual."

"Hitman Actual, go ahead 2-1."

"Prisoners. What do we do with them?!"

"Hoard them back at the palace, I'll have the JSDF tasked to guard them."

"Roger that," Masterson had looked the girl up and down before grabbing her neck and dragging her, legs against bare, dirt, rough stone, all the way to the center again. He didn't notice that she literally had chicken feet.

* * *

 **Outside Italica**

 **Estimated Casualties: 12,000+ KIA**

* * *

The Warlords could not simply move up anymore, the mass was to dense to move up further, and there were still at risk of being boarded, so all they did was prong themselves out like a pitch fork, and continued to open fire as a Chinook, under the covering fire of the Little Birds, dropped off more ammo for them, another squad of Marines now providing infantry support from their end.

The crews of the Abrams had fallen into repetition.

" _ **H.E Ready!"**_

" _ **H.E Out!"**_

Boom.

" _ **H.E Ready!"**_

" _ **H.E Out!"**_

Boom.

And so the cycle kept going and going and going, into the infinite. Sure, there were a few men in that mosh pit that wanted to surrender, but death was always honorable, even against such travesty of warfare.

To know you died on your feet in such odds was a comfort that would carry these soldiers to Emroy's feet.

The Warlords were just as happy to provide, the armored skirts dirty with mud and red, the tracks having pieces of people, equipment, and whatever else inside of them.

" _ **H.E Ready!"**_

" _ **H.E Out!"**_

Boom.

* * *

 **Above Italica**

 **Estimated Casualties: 13,200+ KIA**

* * *

"Rapier Three, you're the last on station to drop Napalm, everyone else, drop your irons and dump your guns." Rapier Lead had rumbled into his oxygen mask, a dare of fate making him kick in his VTOL above the castle and bask in it.

Usually there was no reason for him to go hover in the middle of a combat sight, but there was no hostiles able to touch him.

The fighting inside Italica itself had been brutal, but not one Marine had died. Some Marines had been stabbed, hit, but none had been reported as KIA.

As was the theme, the Special Task Force would not have a dead man to their name.

It was an incredible fact, as much as it was a horrifying one.

Rapier Lead had adjusted the photo of his son, tucked behind one of the gauges.

This would be one of the days he wouldn't talk about, gunning the VTOL to give him altitude and resuming level flight.

* * *

 _ **United States of America - 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue - The White House**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 16,700+ KIA**_

* * *

"Mister President, while the Japanese were distracted with the engagement currently taking place, we had one helicopter break off and confirm the existence of the desert that the CIA recon team reported on before they went dark. We will be sure to get there before the Japanese even know what we're doing."

"Still attempting to get Bravo Point open?"

"Haven't made any progress since the team went dark."

"Alright… prepare the statement that'll come from this battle. I doubt this many killed will be taken kindly by the international community."

* * *

 _ **Ginza – The Gate**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 18,000+ KIA**_

* * *

"This is Overlord speaking on behalf of Commander Hazama, reinforcements are cleared to come in. Begin the Operation."

Another deployment of JSDF personnel, and JSDF alone, about half as strong as the original deployment, had readied their engines as the Gate opened again to the sound of air raid sirens.

The reinforcement operation had begun.

One by one, the green army tanks, still dated models, had gone into the dark.

* * *

 _ **Italica**_

 _ **Estimated Casualties: 19,300+ KIA**_

* * *

Lelei, having regained her senses as she sat on the balcony of the castle with Chuka, had observed it all come crashing down: the battle, the brigands, any hope of this world ever being the same.

"It's over." she said simply. Hopefully these Marines, the JSDF, the Rangers, would see her as a willing friend in the time and deliberation to come.

Chuka didn't respond as she looked at the blood on her hands. Would her father be proud of her?

Her face was of two people, her heart of two emotions, her mind of a killer, and a daughter.

" _ **What have -… what have I done?!"**_

On the ground floor, the command post had moved inside, Emerson and the Princess sitting next to each other, Pina waiting for a second to interrupt Emerson as the castle was turned into a field headquarters.

He saw the look in her eye as reports of surrendering came in: enough of the men had died that a clear message could be conveyed: _**"Please, no."**_

Sevson hadn't been sidelined, he directing the choppers on supporting attack runs and of the like, but he had also seen the look in her eye, and before she could raise her hand, her word, her being in protest, he had said something English as Lelei had walked down once ornate steps to translated, a long few seconds after Sevson had said it.

" _ **The United States Marine Corps is occupying this town, your highness."**_


	9. 1-6: Shame

A/N: Cool down chapter. Nothing held back, I'm starting to put up the lines between the Americans and the Japanese.

Catz112 - You're notice on character development to action ratio is fully valid, and I'll be concentrating on that in the coming chapters up until the CIA, Spetsnaz, and Chinese do the dougie in Hakone.

Anyway, Captain Hoffman, yeah, you got me on the grammar and spelling stuff. Just because this is my crack fic doesn't mean I should have spelling errors everywhere, but... yeah, no real excuse.

Mandalore, well, I think you have a trade of thought right now you should hold onto, because yes, I intend to friction to continue, to exist, until I fully break canon and it all goes to a shitshow. The new versus the old guard, things like that. In war no one is really right, but... well, you'll see.

Personally I'm the most afraid of what the hell I'm gonna do with the girls, the Nobles will come easier to me, but Chuka, Rory, Lelei... save for the former, whom is a total dear, I'm afraid I'll have to do the worst to them...

* * *

 ** _Section 1-6_**

* * *

The Japanese Self Defense Force had been shuttling wounded, both enemy and allies, back to Arnus. The medevac constant, one chopper designated those of Hitman that could not go on any further:

Doc had been propped up on a stretcher, yet still looking over the six of my squad that could not walk on their own:

Bannon, her eye was in need of serious treatment that would send her back to our world.

Sergeant George Ramirez, former police officer, he had been knocked in the head with a brick, and though his grey matter wasn't everywhere, he had been rather incoherent, concussed, ever since he had come out of the black. He'd taken worse before, however, veteran that he was.

Black just couldn't hear much but the low rumble of sound, his ears bleeding.

Loke had broken her arm, shielding herself from the explosion, her hand unable to let go of the rifle she had been carrying,

Corporal Danielle Hauvsbaum, another woman from New York, same as I, had suffered a stab wound post-explosion during her counter attack with Masterson's group.

Bannon had reached out a weak and bloody hand to me as she sat on the side of the chopper, our casualties laid all about.

Doc had pointed to each of them. "Worst one, probably 6-8 weeks… unless Bannon here loses her eye, and then we lose her."

I took her hand and shook.

"Take care of my people, alright Lisa?"

"They're my people too, Kay."

"Right… and take care of yourself." That was all I had said as Masterson had come up behind e and drove me away, sending me back to the castle, as I glanced back I had only seen Cam stoke the white bandaged side of Lisa's face before waving goodbye, the chopper going off into the noon sun, back toward Arnus.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 10**_

 _ **The Special Region – Italica**_

* * *

My limp had gone away with enough ignoring of it, most of our muscle suits shredded, shedded away to the 75th Ranger Regiment's armorers' chagrin. What was left was just the BDUs, our combat uniform shirts that hugged our bodies a bit tightly as we still strapped rifles around our forms.

Gunshots had still been going off in the city as far as holds out went, a lot of survivors and now prisoners of war that were only a fraction of around 20,000 that were killed.

Literally there were feet of bodies covering the ground outside, blood running through streets which had no sewers to drain into.

"We saved this town." said Masterson as he rejoined my side, returning into the field HQ that the castle had become. Choppers buzzed overhead perpetually, the sound of doors being breached through the town maddening as the sun rose to a very, very hot day.

"Yeah…" I scoffed. "We sure as hell saved this town."

"Same way we saved Baghdad, eh?" Cam had been falling into my sarcasm.

"After the fifth time."

The Major had taken hold of the operation, organizing, securing the streets, the town, the perimeter as the Abrams were each given a corner of the town to hull down on.

"Sir." I addressed him and he looked up at me from the radio. "I owe you this."

I saluted hard, Masterson falling into the same as he rose and saluted us off.

"Go check on the royal up there," he said as he pointed up the stairs. "RCT3 and one of my officers are about to start negotiations with her regarding the status of this town…"

I had cleared my throat, a cloud of dust shaking off my skin. "Are we really occupying this town?" I asked, carefully. He nodded.

"I'm having the entire 7th MEU relocated here while the Japanese can keep Arnus… You did a-"

I winced at his words. "Please, don't say that."

He knew what I meant: I thought this was a failure, a military calamity.

Almost 20,000 dead because of the butterfly effect of my actions. Just about the same amount killed during the Hiroshima bombing.

Who would be proud of me, I wonder?

"Right, lieutenant. Well, your men are alive, Ranger, should be proud of that, right?"

Cam had given me a pat on the shoulder as he answered for me.

"Of course sir."

Sevson had nodded, his face becoming considerate for a second as his Marines had been setting up further command installations and equipment in the castle's ground floor. "I know this isn't a good time to tell you but…" he licked his teeth, drawing a cigarette from his back pocket. I declined an offer from him. "The Japanese Senate wanted you and Itami's team on the floor during a hearing regarding the deaths of some refugees you were handling… but I think the topic of that hearing will change with what's just happened."

I looked at Cam, and Cam shook his head back. "They want us back immediately?" he asked.

"ASAP…"

I nodded. "Alright," we started to go toward the stairs. "We'll finish up our affairs here and head back to Arnus."

The vultures came in such a mass that combat had erupted again outside, although to a much less intense degree: Marines with shotguns trying their best to ward off vultures that had been trying to go at the living and the living dead out in the field.

The bodies of the vulture like birds had only added to the corpses on the ground, the first of the ground machinery that was originally slated to finish up the airport having been retasked to Italica in regards to body clean up.

There just simply wasn't enough blankets and wraps to respectfully cover the dead, however, as the US was party to the Geneva Convention, each duty soldier was to be identified, laid out, and settled for transportation back to the Empire… eventually.

Asides from the immediate area around Italica, which had been undoubtedly burnt, torn up, and made into the very visage of Hell, Italica's total district territory had been untouched and very, very fertile: a noted trading river just skirting the town itself.

The Marines would find a slice of this world past the Gate here, if they could help it.

* * *

There was one contingency that the US Armed Forces on this side of the Gate had, in the higher echelons, Emerson not included, been briefed on: If the Gate, for whatever reason, would immediately cease working as it had been, leaving a contingent of the US Military in this world.

It was for that reason, all the equipment needed to sustain a military entirely, had been shipped over very subtly by the US supply convoys very early on into the Gate. Equipment meant for agriculture, water drawing, plumbing, settlements, ammo making, and all the things that would render being split off from the world moot.

Those supplies had left Arnus at 1300 hours with little fanfare and arrived a meek thirty minutes later, secretly being shoved into the palace where the JSDF got the message that the USMC was going to be the ones that set up shop here, not them.

This wasn't without heated protest. Heated protest enough that the increasingly weary Itami had slipped his tongue.

"You have no right to occupy this land from these people, Marine!" he had yelled at the man in his basic understanding of English.

The Marine officer shot back in Japanese. "There is no such thing as rights when it comes to territory control, Lieutenant Itami, do you of all people, have the right? Does Japan?!"

 _ **"Yes!"**_

Emerson had walked into the room as Itami's tongue slipped with that answer, he bringing his hand slowly to his mouth, his face dirt and war lived.

Most of his squad had been, Pops being there as Kurata had followed a shamed Itami out.

" _ **Fuck it.**_ Do what you will." the man was aggravated as he passed by Cam and Emerson.

Emerson got his point though. This felt wrong… but perhaps no more wrong than occupying Arnus, a holy site.

The Marine officer had been a captain, to which again, the Rangers saluted after the man wiped his forehead, the three royals: Princess Lada, her lieutenant, Hamilton, and Myui, the child heir, had sat, shrunken down as the two men from another world verbally fought, scared of that same intensity coming toward them.

Itami slammed the door on the way out.

Emerson frowned at the captain. "Japanese mean to just pick up and leave… you know we can't leave these people like this, right?" the captain had explained.

Emerson had nodded no. "I suppose we don't have a choice."

The captain had been a clean cut man, buzz cut, a perfectly fine, upstanding, white gentleman whose voice was not usually that of a Marine. Suppose he had been chosen as the impromptu negotiator.

Lelei had also been there, with Chuka sitting respectfully by the side, some innocent sparkle in her eye I had not seen before. I nodded at them.

"I will translate." Lelei said as she took to the captain's flank.

The captain looked at me oddly. "She's very good." I explained.

"Alright… but, before we get started," he spoke aloud, not really caring, it was in English and Lelei hadn't known enough about it yet to fully comprehend, much less the royals, anxiously waiting in their negotiating clothes. "We're on the same page here, right? Occupy the town and its territory for our own use, prisoners that will not be under our custody at Arnus will stay here and be obliged to repair the town, and use this town as sort of our… neutral zone for further Imperial negotiations?"

Emerson had gotten out his e-cigar and blew out one puff once, calming his nerves.

"Vanilla?" the captain asked.

"Yeah. And yes, understood."

"Good, let's get started."

The soldiers had all stood at attention and held their hands behind their back, this room having fared well, minus the blowing curtains from blown out windows.

Lelei had bowed in the middle of both parties. "Deliberations may begin."

Hamilton had rolled out a scroll as she stepped forward, even as helicopters still roared outside and the scout sniper team on top of the palace had been shooting off one large boom a minute, causing the royalty to jump in their seats.

"O- On behalf of the town of Italica, its rightful ruler Myui of the Fromar, and Princess Pina Co Lada, Third Princess of the Empire, we would like to thank the JayEssDe Ef, the YuuEss Marine Core, and the Rangers for their valiant efforts in saving the town and dealing with the bandit menace as well as an Imperial General who had misinterpreted an Imperial Decree and tried to kill a Princess of the empire."

Pops had bowed, however the Americans simply stood straight.

"In accordance with proper formalities, we would like to negotiate your compensation."

The captain had took a step forward before Hamilton could finish.

"Indeed, miss, these proceedings are merely formalities. In all eventualities, the United States Marine Corps will be occupying this town for the foreseeable future, as such, Imperial Protocol no longer applies here."

Hamilton had shuffled back a bit, her grip on the scroll wavering. "What?"

"It is clear to our military forces that this town cannot defend itself against to any sort of reprisal in the future, as such, in the interest of promoting peace and stability in the region, we see it fit to occupy this town during its reclamation and rebuilding process. Under the Geneva Convention, of which you will be advised of later in regards to other documents this military operates under, we will aid any civilians and your own wounded if possible."

I had stepped forward, the captain stepping back.

"Under normal circumstances, monetary issues will be relevant during this, but no currency of the Empire is currency to us, thus, we advised any funds accumulated by Italica go toward the civilian population and the welfare of this particular area."

Lelei had been a very quick translator, but she had gone on longer than the statement had needed, this time a translation coming to her.

"In exchange for the profits made for the selling of the dragon scales to go toward this town's rebuilding, as was our original task here, I have asked to be Myui's advisor from here on in. Is this agreeable?"

The captain had looked over to Emerson for this. "Is this alright with the rest of the refugees back at Arnus?"

"I will compensate them in time by giving them a new home here." she explained. Emerson had looked to a nodding Chuka, noticing that at least she was alright with this. With that, Emerson agreed.

"It is of considerable capital, what Lelei has: a quantity of dragon scales and dragon claws that we have estimated to be 330,000 Denari, or as such." the Ranger explained.

The princess sucked in breath at the number… she'd never even spent that much in her life, and she was royal.

"We are not here as conquerors. We are here as people that are owed something, not by the people of the Empire, but the Empire itself. Is this understood?" the captain spoke up again.

Pops had stood forward as well, obviously not pleased, but doing as he could with the situation.

"Regarding the prisoners. They will be treated humanely, those that will stay here, they are our jurisdiction and will obligated to help rebuild this town."

Hamilton had pretty much lost all bargaining power upon the mention that this town was being occupied.

Another shot rang out upstairs. Of course it was, the occupation and the reinforcements for the Rangers and RCT3 were one and the same.

"Human-ely?" she tried saying the word that was used in warfare rather ironically.

Emerson nodded. "We would treat these prisoners fairly, as regular combatants, as if they were average people, friends, and as such."

Hamilton tightened her fists as the scroll just fell to her side, the princess looking rather resigned. "Do friends, family, burn down towns, pillage, and rape their own?"

"No. But it is our terms, and anything will be unacceptable in regards to prisoners."

Hamilton's eyes lit up. "So there are still subjects able to negotiated on?"

The captain had nodded. "We are merely occupying this town, as for the rest of the city's politics and affairs we will not interfere. The ruler shall still be as it were before we arrived," he had motioned to the young girl in her late father's seat. "and we shall do everything in our power to affirm it."

"…I do not understand." Hamilton had wavered.

Emerson had stood forward again. "We are not taking your lives, or your livelihoods, away from you just because we are the victors. We are simply protecting that way of life as we temporarily inhabit this town." he cleared his throat again. "Victory means many things, and can be achieved in many ways. As far as I can say, you are the victors today."

And so Emerson had gotten on one knee before Myui and bowed before them, the rest of the soldiers following suit. All of them, swearing to protect their puppet leader.

* * *

Emerson had been called alone into the deliberation room again with the Princess. Cameron, in all the humor that he needed to simply just survive that day, had given him a cheeky smile and bumped his shoulder as he walked out with the marine captain, no argument able to be had by the Imperials.

She shut the door behind the man rather hard as the two stood opposite of each other.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?" Emerson responded.

"Why did you give your claim of victor over to us?"

"Because you are victors today. Aren't you alive?"

"Being alive doesn't necessitate victory out right: I could be alive, taken prisoner, raped, dis-"

Emerson had raised a hand. "I get it."

"So why are you not conquering us?! Like a regular army?! Why are you making things so complicated?!"

A gunshot from the snipers up top.

Emerson had shook his head tiredly, a hand offering the princess and him over to the table as they had talked before, the wine was still there and set, the maids, as odd as they were, having tended to the sheltering civilians with little protest.

He sipped at it, and noted that even across world, good wines were something constant.

"Are we not at war?" she asked, quietly as she sat down. She needed the wine more than me.

"No, we're not, and we're not your enemy. It's whoever ordered the attack through the Gate that was, which, as of right now, indicates it was your father."

"So you are what war with my father?"

"We are seeking justice against those responsible for civilians dead on his account. But rest assured the sins of the father are not on you."

"…what?" she asked, unfamiliar with the phrase.

"We will not put your father's responsibilities and blame on you, just because you are his blood."

"Wha-…. Who are you people?" she almost sobbed.

They were an understanding people, yet a people able to kill with such ferocity it was biblical. They were kind, yet they were killers. They were just, and yet they were compassionate. They spat in the face of their gods, and they were only humans.

Emerson had noted her face, her eyes, her words. She was a woman playing soldier at heart. He knew the sort, so many times. She was a pampered girl who wanted to be a warrior. It was something familiar, from so many kids who played too much Call of Duty, too much American Sniper, too much glamorization of war that made kids feel like heroes if they, not die for their country, but kill for their country.

"You… don't understand us, do you?"

She shook her head no. Emerson had been quite proud that this new language had been taken in spades by him quick enough.

"I'm willing to answer any questions you have later, me and Lieutenant Itami, but only after we fix this town up for your people."

The princess had gone to say something, anything at all, but the radio had buzzed up.

"Hitman Actual, go ahead."

"This is JSDF team Epsilon. Hitman, RCT3 ran into trouble during the RTB to Arnus, suggest getting down to the west gate now."

"Interogative, Epsilon: What problem?"

"Some knights from the Imperial capital showed up. Claiming the represent Princess Pine Co Lada. How copy?"

The Princess heard her name, but didn't understand the language.

Emerson had looked at her as he had gotten up and racked back the bolt in his M16. "Looks like your Order came early."

With that, they both broke out running.

* * *

"Hostiles! Due west! Inbound!"

The horses were in full steed, RCT3, having seen it fit to vacate Italica and head back to Arnus had been the first road block this platoon sized armored cavalry had encountered as they passed bodies and bodies toward a destroyed Arnus.

Obviously they were concerned with the state of the town, it was their duty to protect it, according to communication from their leader of the of the Rose Order.

Itami was beyond pacification as the cars were spread out like a roadblock, what was left of RCT3 that was able to hold a gun deploying behind the vehicles as Itami hopped over the front, arms up.

"Halt!" he yelled.

It was within view enough of Italica that four Little Birds had been immediately tasked by Master Sergeant Freeman to carry him and twelve men over, the seven women, heavily armored and heavily groomed, up front with supporting staff in tail.

The banner they flew was that of a tri-crested rose.

The horses and their riders had come right up, nose to nose with the cars and the defensive line, a silver haired woman having looked down upon a very tired, a very pissed off Itami.

The order did not even flinch as the mystical helicopters set down twelve men behind the cars and covered them.

"Where did you come form?!"

Sergeant Tomita had answered, his gun up.

"Italica!"

Her voice raised in intensity as she saw a destroyed city with vultures and those mystical machines still buzzing over it, gunfire very evident.

 _ **"To where?!"**_

This had looked all too suspicious, all too well reasoned to these women of what had happened to Italica: the enemy from another world had come and gone before they had been able to do something.

The sergeant had said something anyway. "Arnus."

The swords were drawn, and the Marines and RCT3 had sprung into action.

 _ **"Non-lethal! Go!"**_ Freeman had yelled as the Marines had hopped over the Japanese roadblock, gunshots from RCT3 taking out the horses with well aimed shots.

The riders had fallen off before their weapons were fully ready, armor and weaponry falling the bloodied dirt.

The spears had also fallen to the ground, giving the Marines ample time to go to where the dead horses lay and tackle every single rider.

Freeman himself had taken the blonde haired one that seemed to lead them all, his knuckles slamming into her forehead as the orante, steel tiara looking accessory was thrown off, nearly scalping her in the process. However she got right back up, a dagger in her right hand as she lunged at Freeman from the ground. The Marine had peddled back enough for the lunge to do nothing but offer her hand, he taking it and whipping it to his left, making her flip the knife away to the ground. Again she had used her other hand to lunge with her fist, but Freeman had met it with his forearm, forcing both of her arms wide for a punch to her eye to send her down to the ground.

Guns were usually lethal devices, but the Marines had known the benefits of CQC, those who had been able to get up having drawn their swords, sparring with the black rifles.

Non-lethal had meant a lot of things however, a rifle or two had shot into the arms and legs of some of the more resistant ones as the Marines and RCT3 tagged their targets, tackling and subduing every single knight of that rose order, their banner falling to the blood soaked ground.

The silver haired rider had been able to get on her two feet, trying to go for her weapon, but Itami had been there first, as she was picking it up him stomping the sword and dragging her head down, only to be brought up again by a knee to her face, breaking her nose.

Horses squealed and women cried out by the insolence of these men and women subduing them. Didn't they knew who they were? They were Pina Co Lada's personal order of knights!

As trained as they were by actual knights, the Marines could not blame them for how they acted after their beating. Even after all the training, the crucible of boot camp, there were Marines that cried, pissed themselves, gone mad in combat all the same.

The horses were driven silent by a loud procession of booms, every single knight brought to their stomachs, bleeding, and having guns held to the back of their heads as the weapons were thrown asides into some ditch, many of them getting stomps to the stomachs or the backs to fully stay their resistances.

Everything else done had been from the JSDF, dragging the girls through the mud and blood all the way to Italica, no matter how much skin was torn in the drag, no matter how many groans of pains were heard.

They were completely done with this medieval knight shit. So was the rest of the JSDF as they had first tasted urban warfare in its entire carnage in Italica.

The first people to greet the new dozen prisoners had been more JSDF, standing them up straight only to tear their armor away savagely, every piece of jewelry, every piece of steel on their form, every ear ring, every belt, buckle, and even the clothes off their back. Some resisted, some tried to fight back with what little dignity they had left, but it was stripped away too fast by too many people.

For the sake of security, for the sake of going mad, the women, these knights, had been stripped down to nearly, and to some outright, naked and shamed as they saw what had happened to Italica: It was all dead, destroyed, and soon they were to be subject to this same kind of ferocity as their senses were overloaded with dread.

One of the knights had been darting her eyes too much, left and right, her legs moving as if to run away.

A firm punch by one of the JSDF had brought her down the ground as the point got across, the prisoners of just recently the last five minutes left alone for all to see as the soldiers from another world backed off, and let them be shamed surrounded by the failures of the empire.

The punch had been a crack and her body a splash into the puddles of both runoff and blood. One of them had gone to help her, but a JSDF soldier had tugged on her arm hard and head butted her throat, making her sputter as she started coughing up blood, having difficulty breathing.

One of the women tried to speak up, but a slap to her mouth by the cheering Japanese had stayed all of their words.

They didn't even see war. They only saw, felt, what remained of it.

 _ **"Yeah! Bitches!"**_ The Marines had encouraged from the remains of the defensive walls, but the Marines had done nothing more: all they did was watch as the JSDF taunted the women in every way, even as RCT3 simply looked on at them in disdain:

 _ **How dare you talk to us like you own this place. How dare you believe yourself any kind of warrior. How dare you draw a sword against us.**_ The snarl on Itami's face was a conflicted one, but one that lasted as the remains of Hitman, escorting Princess Pina Co Lada, had reached the women, at gun point even, pushing away the JSDF.

These women were beautiful, cut from the highest cloth from all the land, and now they were subjugated to this. Bleeding, not knowing what was happening, picked apart and made only one thing in the eyes of these true warriors: fake. Just like all their parents, all the royalty had teased them when they first started out.

Maybe they had a point.

Their Princess had barely offered any comfort as they looked on, in an amazing span of a few minutes, completely hopeless, their eyes wide, blank, wounded, and completely devoid of knowing what they had gotten into.

Gun shots still continued out the town as the last of the hold out raiders screamed into the air.

" _ **Jesus Christ**_ , what a shit show." Emerson had said fast as the JSDF turned their faces away, satisfied with what they had done to these women just by stripping them bare. "Alright, get them to the castle, _**now!**_ "

And so the women had hobbled on, in shame their manicured feet being tarnished by grit and the blood they thought they could draw themselves.

Freeman had seen explicitly what the JSDF had done, and he was enraged. Unknowingly, but justly, enraged.

"The United States Marine Corps is occupying this town." That is what he remembered what Major Sevson had said.

He started barking with his legendary bite at the JSDF, at all of them.

 _ **"Get out of here! RTB back to Arnus! We don't need you here!"**_

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _"The immediate objectives are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible…"_

 _Orders of George Washington regarding the Native Americans, May 31, 1779_

* * *

Itami and Emerson shared a smoke.

They needed a smoke, but moreso, they needed to smoke with each other as the medics had attended to the new prisoners: Pina Co Lada's knights.

"You don't like how this is going?" Emerson asked on the balcony, the fighting having settled and the defensive circle that was their last stand now the gathering for the prisoners.

"No. Not one bit. Not one fucking bit."

Itami hadn't ever been this serious before, and that had very much bothered Emerson.

"This is not the way it's supposed to be. We're not here to kill people. We're here to deliver justice to whoever… this emperor, and then… and then…."

It was always the, and then, that tripped up nations and empires.

 _ **We'll go to Iraq, overthrow Saddam, remove the chemical weapons and dismantle the Iraq Army and then… and then we'll just watch as the country falls apart as we don't know what to do otherwise… and then we'll be fated to be here forever, a wound that will never heal.**_

"I'm… I don't know what's going to happen from here on in." Emerson answered back, deep bags around his eyes, the noise too much almost.

"We're going back to Japan, we're going to testify before the senate over whatever inane bullshit they need us to talk over, then we're going to rebuild this town, kill that dragon for Chuka, kill the emperor, and then leave." It was all so simple to say out loud, Itami had thought, but Emerson knew better. And then what would happen to the people here after killing so many and decapitating their government?

Oh right, of course, Emerson thought. _**The fucking Dark Ages**_.

 _ **History repeats.**_

" I see the taste of Americana on the tongues of all the JSDF. We're drinking the American Kool-Aid and it's so sweet and it scares me." Itami's confession was so blunt his drag had been the heaviest one he had taken after that. "What specifically scares me is the fact that it's said to be fated to happen… shouldn't we know better?"

Emerson put out his E-cig, stuffed it into his pocket, and hugged the man hard, his cigarette falling to the ground. The Ranger shook his head on his shoulder. "Look here you motherfucker, remember what you told me what this career was to you?"

Itami had been frozen by his grip. "A source for my income to support… my lifestyle."

"Think of it only as that… same way this is me trying to springboard my way into politics. Do not think of the big picture now, it'll drive you insane… just look at Cameron." Emerson released the man.

He gave a heavy sigh, running his hands over his cheeks to wave off the ash and dust that had been built into his skin now. "It's selfish though."

"Better them, than us."

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 11**_

 _ **Arnus Hill – The Gate**_

* * *

History, in all my studying, never gave us an answer. It showed us our mistakes, our wrong turns, the results of a thousand choices, but never an answer.

It wouldn't have been that easy, but as I desperately tried to justify everything in the last few days, I looked for any answer, any help I could from the past.

And all I found was nothing but the same lines we had written, now penned by another hand, and it infuriated me.

We were going home on account of the Japanese senate hearings, civilian buses offered to Hitman and RCT3 to roll back through the gate, all the way home to.

And it had been only been twelve days in this deployment.

I wonder how the Marines, the Army men of old handled entire years of deployments overseas.

I wonder how they would deal if they were in my shoes, but it had been useless, the past, again, being useless to me as I tried to find a way to do what we needed to do here, and leave it better, hopefully, than when we came.

The only thing that brought me out of my reflections as the bus slowly rolled through the gate, had been RCT3, Hitman, Rory, Chuka, Lelei, Princess Lada and her least beaten lieutenant, all huddling around Bannon's left behind laptop over the footage of what we had taken in these last few days.

The documentary had been five hours deep already… and it even included interviews.

"Remember Baby, vote Jay Kay Emerson for Presidential Run 2032!" a version of myself nine days in the past had smiled into the camera as we knew they were recording. "Known for valiantly leading the Hitman squad in dangerous lands, far from home, saving all the pretty ladies and serving democracy!"

I facepalmed as the rest of the squad had their parts, RCT3 and the girls captivated by it.

Itami bumped my shoulder as I retreated to my seat, asking for my attention.

"Well… guess I won't miss the Winter DOujinshi exhibit if they give us leave time…" I smiled at his returning enthusiasm, slowly there, but perhaps a lie. "What're you gonna do?"

I looked at my iPhone, scrolling down one of only a dozen contacts: A few friends I kept in touch with, Bannon and Masterson's numbers, my brother, my father, and my mother…

"I'm gonna call Mom. Tell her I'm okay… I need someone to tell me their proud of what I'm doing…"

Itami had hit my shoulder again as he settled, down, all of us in our dress blues, greens, and whatever. "I'm proud of you… glad you're here with me for this… can't say the same for everyone else." He had wearily looked at Shino, our post-action reports not noting any of her bloodthirstiness for her sake.

"Well, tell you what," I closed my eyes as I tried to get shut eye. It would be night over there, and I needed to get back on Earth's schedule of moonrise and sundown. "When we both end up in the loony bin, I'll gladly smuggle some cigarettes for you."

We both gave tired chuckles.

"We really need to quit." he said.


	10. 1-7: The Ones who Give

_**Earlier**_

 _ **The Special Region – Italica**_

* * *

The Marines, they had tackled this Rose Order of knights, subdued them, but it was the JSDF that had broken them down further.

"Who are they?" I asked to Princess Lada. Though I wanted to ask another question, some form of disappointment written on my face. Why are these brave knights crying? Aren't they soldiers? The warrior culture I had become a part of, that made my fists clench unkindly, had made me expect more of anyone who dared pick up a weapon to fight.

"They are my comrades. Children of Imperial Royals like myself who took up arms for an order of Roses."

I realized something then. "This is your first combat experience, isn't it?"

No way royals would send their own blood to war… things must've been getting bad at the home front.

The only JSDF personnel left in Italica as the Marines and the volunteering civilians had started to take buckets and get the blood off the streets were those assigned to guard duty over the most resilient prisoners, the Rose Order included.

RCT3 had gone back to Arnus, finally, they needed the rest and the quiet to bide their minds.

In order to keep them disoriented, keep them unknowing of what was happening, the Huey that had mounted the psy op speakers had been landed right next to the prisoner zone and blaring, at high volume, the strange sound of an electric guitar that grated against these people's ears.

* * *

 ** _Now Playing:_**

 ** _Jimi Hendrix - All Along The Watchtower_**

* * *

Thankfully me and the princess were observing them from far away enough the volume of the music hadn't been too much of a hamper to our conversation.

She nodded to my question. It wasn't even combat, so I heard. It was a denial of all their training, all their purpose, when confronted with an enemy that did not play by their rules.

Perhaps, on that level, I understood why they sobbed.

So much to prove, yet why did god put them versus us?

 ** _"There must be some kind of way out of here,"_**

 ** _Said the joker to the thief,_**

 ** _"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief."_**

There wasn't really an answer, but one could say it was because of their parents sending so many men to kill us.

"Princess, I'm going to be brief then." She looked at me as a Black Hawk had landed for the rest of Hitman on the far side of the palace grounds. We really were due back home sooner, than later. "We're going back to our world to speak to our government's representatives regarding what has happened here today. What they tell me to do afterwards might end up in that war you seem to be looking for. Do you understand?"

I had dropped the mag in my M16 and let the rifle fall limp at my side, she watching as I put the aluminum case in one of my pockets.

"If… If I want to avoid war with between our people-"

"No." I had stopped her. "It won't be a war. **_It'll be a slaughter_**." he motioned to the thousands of bodies in the street being dragged to outside the wall for counting and proper rights.

"If I want to stop this slaughter…" I nodded at her, seeing her train of thought as she held a hand over her heart. "I will have to speak on behalf of the Empire our wishes."

"No." Again, I stopped her. "You will speak **_your_** wishes, you alone know what we bring."

She nodded, agreeing, unsure, but wanting.

"Take one of your lieutenants. The rest will be treated fairly under our conventions of war, and eventually we'll have them take care of Myui and this… transitional government here in Italica. After that, meet me by that machine with the proper diplomatic attire."

Seeing as she was royalty, I saluted her off, squaring my back away and disappearing to her inside our new field headquarters.

I bypassed Major Sevson, still ass sat down by the radio as he was shouting orders left and right. He looked up at me and shook his head. He simply didn't know what to do with all the bodies.

"Get the approval of Myui to burn them if you need to." I said, leaving him with that suggestion as the remainder of Hitman had called in a few Little Birds to take the trip in one go.

Masterson, being the only squad leader left, had taken over Bannon's men and women with little trouble, nodding at me as I came over.

"Princess is coming." I told him simply, my vocabulary draining with each hour I stayed awake.

He nodded thoughtfully before yelling out loud. " ** _Present Arms!_** "

And so we waited there, at arms, for ten minutes or so, before the princess reappeared efore the aisle we made for them. With her: a blonde haired one with circlets. They had walked all the way down in clothes befit of travelling royals, and stopped just short of the beasts that were the helicopters, not knowing what to do.

"Imitation is a form of flattery, your highness, so after me." Masterson had said as he lowered his arms and ducked his head into the chopper. "These things," he knocked his fist against the metal inside. "They're called helicopters. Trust me, you ain't lived till you been in one while it's flying."

The two women had looked at me, the blonde having hidden a blackened eye underneath some form of makeup. I nodded, it was safe.

Didn't exactly help the fact that they were screaming all the way back to Arnus, gripping the seats for all dear life.

* * *

 ** _The Special Region – Arnus_**

* * *

Chuka and Lelei, in their familiarity with the Marines thus far, had asked for a Little Bird to ferry them back to Arnus after finding out Itami had gone back.

Rory, according to Wilbur, who had taken off after the battle of Italica was over, had shown up at the gates of Arnus with his jacket and her Halberd.

She had still continued to wear it, seeing as her priestess outfit was ruined.

Still, that wasn't the thing that concerned me most as me and Doc, after having that piece of wood ripped out of his leg and stitched to hell and back, looked at the arm Shino had supposedly shot off.

"Why am I not surprised, miss?" Doc had pretty much thrown his medical training out the window seeing as this was an apostle that could regenerate limbs.

Certainly gave proof to our own Jesus Christ coming alive again.

"I don't know, perhaps one day you will all have these traits, as befit the apostles of Emroy."

Again, with her alluding to our greater service.

I shook my head as Itami had looked on in the background with Chuka, the young woman, impossibly, becoming more amiable after that great carnage. He had asked her, on behalf of the Japanese government with Lelei, to make the journey over to Japan for the hearings.

"I serve my country first, Rory, not a God."

She giggled at me.

"I have lived long enough to know which outlives the other, 2nd Lieutenant Emerson. Consider this a smarter investment, for all of your men, and those like you… perhaps there are other on the other side of the Gate, more willing."

She had already explained to Itami, after eavesdropping on his conversation with Chuka, that she was going. Yet again, we couldn't exactly say no.

Paperwork might've said otherwise.

Doc shriveled his nose as he limped along with me, away from Rory as she concerned herself around the base. No one had really given her permission, but no one had wanted to be the person who said no to the girl with the giant blade who couldn't be killed.

She wasn't disruptive at all really.

"Got word from Godfather, Colonel Chigurh."

"Oh yeah?" I asked.

"Bannon's still fit for service, rushed her for some odd eye surgery that'll keep that left eye of hers under wraps for the meanwhile. Will be an odd thing to see her with an eyepatch, really." Doc was assigned under Masterson, and given his twitchy self he had felt little things toward the other Hitman squad leader. Main thing had been intimidation.

"She was the worse, right?"

"In regards to injury?"

"Yeah."

"Affirmative sir. Loke's got a cast on, Black will be issued some ear aids as his ruptured drums heal up, Ramirez, after some bed rest, stopped going insane, and me…. Well, the chemotherapy was still worse."

Doc was a good man, as good as his head was shiny at the ripe age of thirty five. This was all courtesy of cancer, of course, and still made it through Ranger school after recovering. Respected the man for that.

We walked to the dome of the Gate, that grey morning the day after the Battle of Italica. Same dome had been set up here as it had been in Ginza, on the other side.

"You know how extraordinary, this really is, militarily?" I asked Doc as he hobbled along with his crutch. Really needed to get him a wheelchair.

"Depends what you mean, sir." he said back.

"We have killed somewhere upwards of three hundred thousand people, and, asides from, in the big picture of things, some scratches and black eyes, we have not lost one person in turn."

He made something of an affirmative noise as he nodded. "Miracle… I think."

"More like a massacre."

"Well, same could have been said for the Mujahedeen and the Taliban some decades ago, and they still beat us out at the end more or less."

"At least the Muj' had guns, something that could hit us out from a hundred feet out, or something. These people… they have to look at our faces if they want to kill us."

Doc had grumbled. "Make it sound like you want one person to die on our side."

"Well, if one person dies, that'll be an escalation beyond words. If one of the Japanese dies, they'll mobilize modern armored elements… if one of us or the Marines die… Don't know. Might see a few of the other MEUs come up to plate."

The JSDF had already mobilized another invasion force during the Battle of Italica, more tanks and helicopters than I had even seen before in JSDF service.

All from the reserves, of course, didn't see one active duty unit here yet.

There was good reason to that, China having gotten a bit edgy ever since the Gate opened up and only Japan and America allowed inside. Nothing more than the reemergence of old issues: issues meant to warn the world of the wonders of Japanese expansion:

Manchuria. Nanking. Bataan.

The way the JSDF personnel had torn apart the Order of Roses… those old historical points had been in my mind recently, and no doubt, Itami's.

Itami was a decidedly average man, he had self explained, but average meant a lot of things in the fact he had gone to an average college and came out with an average history degree that allowed him to remember, more than others, invasions done by superpowers in the years before.

Personally I went to Syracuse and came out with an American history degree. Everything I had ever done for myself was to make sure I had set myself as a tried and true American to get myself into politics, that I had not a piece of shame on my record.

Didn't think that becoming a Ranger would have me killing more men than entire divisions had been capable of.

I was still astounded by the loss of life. It was an impossibly high number, and I knew, sure as shit, that someone from the UN would come knocking, soon enough, but the UN had no access to past the Gate yet, as much as the rest of the world clamored to be let in for a thousand official and unofficial purposes.

Even the god damned Palestinians wanted in to have a new homeland… as did the Israelis, or, at least, the most outspoken of them

End of it all though, this land was none of ours, not America's, not Japan's. Regardless of blood spilled on it.

This is how America gained its south west, after all: American blood spilled on foreign land, this becoming an excuse to invade.

"I'm looking forward to some R&R… you know, sir?"

"We only been here for just short of two weeks, Corporal Lamareux, doesn't really feel fair."

The man had shook his head before hobbling away, he still had his own reports to file, as did I. "Well, going home to us only means walking through that gate, that just isn't fair at all. To any soldier who ever lived."

I shrugged, going the opposite way to my denoted paper filing desk and building. "War isn't fair in general, I suppose."

* * *

"The fuck am I supposed to do with this, Ranger?" The Marine Armorer had yelled at me, he was packing his stuff up to go to Italica, as was the order for most of the Marines on this side of the Gate, only people remaining were Overlord and his own platoon at Arnus, just for the sake of always being there with the actual main force: the JSDF.

The JSDF had said something of the like, last I heard, that RCT3 would the same liaison force at Italica, but that was for after we came back from Japan.

The Armorer had been looking at disdain at the boxes of twenty shredded and abused muscle suits from our engagement, even as I handed in each weapon stripped and cleaned all over.

"I don't expect you to know how to fix these things, but at least put in a request to Yokota and have them circle back from there."

The limp synthetics had fallen from the armorer's hand. "Swear to god man, you Army folks are into some sci-fi shit."

"It's 2028 baby. Future is now. Future is black."

The armorer shook his head as I got rid of my squad's weapons and gave him the forms. "Yeah, I played Black Ops 2, too. Get outta here, Ranger."

Watch cap had bene back on my head again, even if it was in the middle of the stinking day.

Tomorrow morning we were due to dust back off, and my men that remained were resting their heads and cleaning house back at the barracks. God knew I needed the same rest.

So I walked in to quiet acknowledgements, everyone having taken a well-deserved showered and down to their skinnies. I followed shortly after before I rested my head on my bunk, head lazily turned to where Bannon and Loke's projector and laptop combination had been throwing up footage from the battle.

"Turn that shit off, Hitman." I said, quietly, half groaning, half tired.

The troops had agreed after a slight reluctance, turning back to the internet we now had.

Asides from the laptop, Masterson had put together Bannon's stuff and packed them well enough under lock and key. When we were away, our stuff was supposed to be shifted to Italica, and, courtesy of Lelei, the new Italica secretary/advisor to Myui, we were going to be bedding with the rest of the refugees in the palace.

It was very thoughtful of her, I thought, to give them a new home. Certainly put a load off our heads, especially considering we had six thousand prisoners of war still back on the other side.

Hitman had all gotten the notice we were due back at the Japanese senate tomorrow, and such their dress uniforms had been sorted out on their beds for easy putting on tomorrow, all of our ribbons, my own Japanese appointed medal, the gold and bronze that denoted us as great soldiers supposedly.

Surprisingly, to some, I had still carried the .45 and the high holster, that laying atop my own uniform.

Masterson had shared my bunk and looked at it wearily as he was also laying down. "You forgot to turn in a piece, Kay."

A few of the squad looked my way and at the tan 1911 derivative.

"Orders from Overlord and Godfather. Says all of us are going to be carrying side arms with Rory around. You'll get 'em tomorrow. Japanese government says it's okay, but make sure Itami doesn't seem 'em."

Masterson had gotten out of his bed and stood, now eye level with me. "You really think a bunch of dingy .45s gonna do shit against her?"

I shook my head. "No, but it'll make them feel better about bringing her over."

How the hell Itami got the permission for her was one thing, but one of the other Japanese officers had been handling the request by Pina regarding her own visit over with one of her knights.

God was one thing; royalty, another.

Lelei coming over was agiven, her translation skills had been making the folks at the language section of PR cry. Chuka on the other hand… well, every political hearing needs a sob story, and she seemed… different ever since she got back, I noticed.

As if she let off some steam, or she just forgot what kind of murderous attitude she had earlier.

Wasn't exactly an answer that sit well with me, but it was the case, and it let her be safe enough for her to travel with us.

But, in any case, crudely, fuck them, how about my people?

My hands had still been jittering, shaking, as if I was still in battle, and I had only gotten back from Italica a mere seven hours or so ago. All of my soldiers were still in battle mode, the way their eyes jittered, their lips curled and their teeth chattered a bit. How desperate they were, to suck in fresh air and live: the high of battle unable to leave them.

To me, I saw two different kind of highs that day: that of war, and that of killing.

Some people go to war, never kill, never fire off a shot in hatred, yet they still experience war and see things that no one should see.

Some people, however, craved something else that was really only justifiable, barely, in war: Killing.

Some people are born to kill, some people are naturals. Either way, they are the second type of people: the people who crave to kill.

An ugly thing, that perhaps is a part of us all, ingrained, but only some are able to bring out. No wonder where all that determination came from in Shino.

But then again, close to 20,000 were killed just a few hours ago, and, generally, strict number crunching told me that we each killed round 320 men, counting both the 7th MEU's combat element and the Fourth Combat Team.

That had been straight numbers, the Abrams probably killing a few thousands by tread alone, but still, it was a maddening prospect to say, if asked, "Yes, I did kill several thousand men today."

I didn't think too much about it.

At least in conventional war one wouldn't feel too bad on account of the fact a regular enemy had a fighting chance, and would spare you no pleasantries.

Here, we were knowingly curb stomping a people unable to do anything but die.

Nutt's pencil had been a noise above the low drum of the A/C.

I looked over. "What the hell are you writing, anyway, Nutt?"

"When I finally become a teacher and this is put in the history books, I want to have my notes of what actually happened down." he said, his back propped up against the pillow of his bunk. "If history will remember us, I want it to be as it were: truthfully."

I closed my eyes tiredly. "History remembering us?" I asked, in disbelief.

Nutt nodded with snap, pointing to me and Masterson. "You two both got Wikipedia pages, trust me, I checked, just a matter a time before Hitman gets it all."

Masterson had made some excited noise and got his own phone up, looking up his own name:

"Oh my god! They do!... and… oh god they linked my parents."

Masterson's parents had Wikipedia pages already… if only because they were lawyers who fought on some landmark case that brought back oil fields back to farmers and agriculture in "refurbished" states. Oil had long run dry in Texas, and as reluctant as the oil companies had been to let go of the land, they had done so at court order.

This, naturally, made Mastersons, the legal firm, a well-respected name in the south to the descendants of what had been the last frontiersmen.

In other words: rich.

And the only son of the Mastersons, Cameron, had a bit of a falling out at the ripe age of ten and sent into the world poor, hungry, and angry.

Naturally after a few years of stomping around Texas back country on odd jobs, he had hardened and not only turned into a man, but a Ranger.

Loved the man, really did, but he is not the man that the world needed on this side of the Gate… nor was he the man I needed to talk to the Emperor to get his palace to open up during Ginza, but hell, he did it.

Masterson had looked up my own page first, before I had. "Well, shit Ell-Tee, didn't know you used to work at Yankee Stadium."

I shrugged as best I could while laying down, looking up at that unfamiliar ceiling, my days throwing peanuts at people a long time gone. "I wasn't even a Yankees fan…"

"Go fuck yourself…. Sir." Harris had shot across the room.

"Later." I gave the man a thumbs up. "Mets baby!"

A few thumb scrolls later, and Masterson had details on me which he had long known.

Family went all the way back to the slaves in regards to America, and there was a little odd unprovable fact that I had some of Thomas Jefferson's blood in me, mother telling me "that was the only time white's ever gotten in our blood". That left a bad taste in my mouth, but the Wikipedia article didn't go that far in: just enough to say where I grew up, where I went to school, how I grew up, and my military service… along with all my physical data and what not.

That was odd. But Wikipedia was Wikipedia, and if the public had dug up the fact I had gotten into a scuffle at Syracuse that left me with a free tuition, I was okay with that. Saved me the time over the Wikipedia dilemma when I went into the halls of office… didn't exactly want to explain how a professor beat the shit out of me one day after he ran me over with his car.

I told Masterson and Bannon this story, a few weeks after we were first introduced to each other:

Family came from nothing, down on our luck in the Bronx, studied my god damn way to Syracuse, and I did not want to fight back against an irate Chinese professor because I did not want to risk losing my place there at the university. It was an illogical thought on my part at the time, but I was scared, not for my life, but for my education and future.

So I let him beat me with a club, almost to death, after he had hit my with his car on a crosswalk. Middle of broad day light.

Eventually a few of the other students pulled him off of me, but by that time I had already been bloodied, and the case was already set that I was due something for the blood I had lost and the body that was beaten.

 _"Being almost beat to death was the best thing to ever happen to me."_ so I explained as I got my degree with a paid for tuition by that lawsuit. But being so close to death changed me, and that anger I never put out at the man was still there, perhaps not toward him, but broadly.

That is, perhaps, part of what led me to the military, and not straight to politics.

"You know, this is sorta what I was wishing for, when I joined." Nutt had said. I didn't look at him, but I pressed him to explain. "Well, Ell-Tee, to go to a foreign land that cannot do jack shit to my home, and do what is generally right…"

Masterson scoffed as he combed over his Wikipedia page still. "Nutt, you believe the shit coming out of your mouth?"

"I dunno."

"There ain't no right or wrong in war, there's only who's right, who's left, and who doesn't care at all." I sunk my head back into my pillow as I prepped for one of Masterson's speeches, he having gotten up and walking between bunks to get the point across. "Just think about it, Nutt, imagine, just for a second, that we are blood thirsty, My Lai preforming, raping, war hawk crazy Marines. Compare that to your educated, well informed, ass and then bring that all down to here: This place is what both types of people hope for, my man. Take a fucking step back and we realize we're at fucking war with a Disney spin off, or maybe some part of Miyazaki's brain that was just too dangerous for a movie, god bless his soul. The whimsical man and the man who does nothing but kill for a living, can find a home here, and if that is not confusing, scary, and or speaks a testament to this world's worth to not only them, but for all types of people, then I don't know why the fuck I'm here, because clearly I don't belong here then."

Being a son of two lawyers tended to make him do this.

"What kind of person, are you again, Cam?" I asked, just to make him finish this thing he did to settle his ego.

He had spread out his arm and spun around, put on display for all the men and women to see.

"You mean, who we are, Lieutenant Emerson? For, we all did go through the Ranger indoctrination, right?"

"Sure."

"Well, Lieutenant Emerson, we are red, white, and blue, patriotic, US Army Rangers, born and raised to believe in freedom and liberty for all who do not dare stand in front of our guns. We are noble, crazy, and maybe a little romantic, but at the end of the day we are death dealing warriors in a world gone cold with almost no conflict, who wake up every day in the hopes that some communist dick suck dictator or a genocidal maniac gives us an excuse to go to their homeland and desecrate all that they know and will know in the name of fairness and equality and justice. Though we fight for peace, we hope diplomacy fails, for at the end of the day peace is not made by pen and word that usually just delays the finality of all mankind… **_No, the answer to the conundrum that is human suffering and tribulations is not peace, but war_**. And we are the ones who give that answer. **_Hoorah!_** "

Sarcastic applause for a brief second as Masterson collapsed on his bunk.

I would hire him to make my speeches later on… probably.

I talked to the ceiling, but Masterson caught my words. "So you don't think we should be using Princess Lada to start the diplomatic process?"

"As much as Princess Peach seems like she fully understands and appreciates the fact we cab downright murder every single one of her subjects with a flick of a finger, her father must hate her, or something, to send her out to these killing fields." Masterson had said. "What good can an unfavored child can do?"

I twinged at his Texas accented words. He was talking from experience. "She said she made that order on her own volition." I answered.

Again, Masterson scoffed as he muffled his voice with a pillow. "Well, fuck, some order that can't take on god damn JSDF Grunts. It's almost like they deserved to get stripped on the street. God knows I saw a few pictures being snapped by the Nips."

"Ain't no one deserves to be shamed like that, Cam… but still, don't know the Japanese did that."

Masterson kicked my bunk from the bottom. "Motherfucker, you're the one with the history degree. You trying to tell me that the Japanese ain't gonna pull a Nanking here eventually?"

"Well, I hope they don't."

"Yeah, and I hope we don't repeat the same mistakes of Vietnam in Iraq- whoops. Never mind."

I saw Harris shake his head in the background as we drew the shades and shut off the lights. "You guys are too good." he commentated.

We all knew where this was going though. Masterson was a piece of work, but he was always right.

* * *

 ** _Four Months since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _D-Day + 11_**

 ** _Arnus Hill – The Gate_**

* * *

With little thought to it, Emerson had shaved his head bald the morning of departure, leaving only his scruffy goatee and a trim beard to it that outlined his jaw. The tan beret of the Ranger dress uniform wouldn't cooperate otherwise.

It came down from USFJ that those deploying to the other side of the Gate could forgo grooming regulations, if only because it was something of a curious tactic that was supposedly something that let foreign troops integrate with the local population better.

Masterson had been doing everything with a blonde handlebar moustache for the last three months because of it, beards, moustaches, and generally long hair formed into pony tails and buns otherwise.

To Emerson, it was somewhat refreshing to see everyone grow out their hair, it gave them personality.

Not that Pina and her lieutenant would see the Rangers as anything other than the helmeted, same faced death dealing machines. She thought the Japanese were more approachable, and that had been after the incident with her Rose Order.

RCT3 had come out in only a portion, Itami, Sergeant Tomita, and Shino having showed up to come over.

All of the Rangers that were still on the other side were there, Bannon going to meet them on the other side, she up and walking after a very, very urgent round of a surgical operation. A call to Masterson's phone in the middle of the night had confirmed she was going to be good enough for service after a month, given the fact that most of Hitman was given leave time, inexplicably, as these hearings went on.

Masterson had been more than happy she was okay.

Perhaps why, as Emerson had observed, he had a goofy smile on today.

Sergeant Tomita had given Emerson's right hand man an odd look. Tomita was a big man, reminded most of the Americans of a Japanese Schwarzenegger really, but he was a quiet one in particular. That had made him ideal for ferrying around Princess Lada and Bozes Co Palesti, another Imperial Royal, to all indications.

She had suffered a blackened eye, courtesy of the Japanese, but that was covered up with the miracles of modern makeup that some of the female troops had loaned.

To all intents and purposes, she was a fine soldier, and loyal to Pina over everything, but still, much like the 320,000 or so dead Imperials, that meant nothing under the scrutiny of automatic fire and people who did not fight with honor.

The two royals had been behind RCT3 as Emerson approached them, the twenty of Hitman all squared away and cleaned up despite the ultraviolence of the day before. Bannon had been the only one shipped back over.

Emerson patted Itami's arm after regarding his two subordinates. "Sleep alright?"

He shrugged. "Having another person help me with paperwork ain't too bad, admittedly." Emerson nodded. About six hours into his nap he had remembered Itami was probably inundated with paperwork. Good man as he was he came down to help.

Rory, Chuka, and Lelei had also been in the procession behind them. Emerson smiled at Lelei with a nod. He had watched Itami take her back to camp after, supposedly, a long day of translating that left the girl a bit sore in the throat and light in the head.

She had been host to not only Princess Lada, Bozes, and the JSDF Brass, but also to Overlord.

What they had talked about was something Overlord had smirked at when Emerson pressed before dawn. Colonel Pierce had taken his call sign very well, and he had been introduced as Colonel Overlord in the meeting. He had corrected, after a time, that his name was actually Adrian Pierce, but Overlord had stuck in the royals' heads already. Colonel Pierce was a man who had seen a war more maddening than the massacre at Ginza, or of the Battle of Italica.

He had been there during Kim Jung Un's death as Korean Reunification happened: millions and millions of North Koreans thrown against the wall that was the USFK and South Korea with such reverence for their dead god it was mutually agreed upon that the Second Korean War stopped conflict. Only because of the fact it was such a costly war, a one sided war, that it made nearly 3/4ths of the US forces in Korea at the time come down with forms of PTSD. Nothing to say of South Korea, or rather, Korea itself with its surviving people.

He had been the muscle of the initial meeting between the JSDF and the Imperials, the Americans technically having no part but as a supplementary force to the JSDF in the end, but the Marines and Hitman had done so much work, it was mutually agreed upon for Overlord to attend the meeting.

His eyes, for the lack of better words, pierced through the Princess. Even as her father had been able to do so, it did not have that fatherly sentiment she associated that gaze with. The gaze of the American, and Americans in general, as she had observed the two types of people there, had been one of great tragedy, and great weariness.

It scared her.

 _"They're terrified." Hazama had mentioned to one of his officers, the rather political one, and to Pierce._

 _"Good." had been Overlord's response._

Hitman had rendered attention, respectfully, to the two royals as Emerson did the same in front of them.

"Your highness."

Itami shook his head. "You Americans are too formal."

Emerson stuck out his hand to, once again, no catch. He shrugged as he waved at the three girls behind him, Chuka pleasantly in a good mood with her new clothes: a heavy sweater that would've provided warmth against an unfamiliar land in winter.

His gaze drew to Rory's weapon again. It had been torn out with a piece of Warlord 1-3's grill, and, though there was nothing anyone could do about it, she said she would give it up if she was allowed to wield one of the M2 Brownings that the Abrams had mounted.

Naturally the brass let her have the halberd instead.

"We got them all approval, you know, even the princess." Itami said, Tomita had nodded to confirm. "Yanagida seemed to streamline the process with the royals though."

"Really? Wilbur told me about him. Seems to be an odd man, him. A spy, maybe?"

Itami shrugged. It was too early.

Shino had been herself ever since Italica, not one bit said about her killing, her all too eager killing, during the battle. There was nothing anyone could do, technically, she did what everyone was doing: killing, and she was doing it very willingly.

Needless to say it gave Itami some seed of doubt about her mental state.

He was moreso concerned about the M45 pistols in the holsters hidden by the Ranger uniforms.

"You're carrying?" Itami had answered.

Emerson had blew out some air, pulling up the flap of his dress coat that was supposed to hide the gun for all to see, and looked straight into his counterpart's eyes. "No."

Itami had simply shook his head. "Americans."

Emerson shrugged again. Man was very observant, as usual.

Itami had taken out a cigarette and lit it though, his own shrug having come and gone as he motioned to the princess and her lieutenant, unnveringly eyeing up the bus that was going to carry the Rangers, RCT3, and the other worlders over.

Masterson had stepped forward from the two lines that the Rangers made, notcing the two royals' nervousness toward the bus.

"Don't worry, not everything we have is capable of killing… less that thing falls on you… or something."

The blonde one, Bozes, had spoken up. "….It looks like it might tip over. It's… too big."

Tomita had chimed up, reassuringly. "Things are gonna be a lot bigger over there in general."

Masterson had stifled a laugh before he had went back in line.

The bus was there, waiting, idle, a JSDF truck driver turned bus driver waiting patiently.

"Sorry for making you guys wait." Itami said. "Yanagida kept me busy, said something to the sound of "Don't let the Americans talk to them.""

Emerson nodded thoughtfully, Itami's annoyed scowl coming and going. "Shouldn't be a problem."

Lelei, in all her understanding, had shrugged too.

"Last chance to bow out of not going," Itami had motioned to the group. Not one eye had been lacking in determination. They were going, hell of high water.

And so they all, very slowly, boarded that bus.

Emerson looked at his watch before they got on, looking up at the morning sun and sky.

They watches were short an hour every day, or so. Daylight in general seemed a bit chopped off in terms of the regular twenty four hour schedule.

"Lelei says there are three hundred and eighty days in a year, compared to our own calendar." As said Itami, he having forgone watches entirely, disappearing into the bus.

Days should've been shorter, as was the logic, in Emerson's mind. But no matter the case, it would be late afternoon over there, and the time they ran off of was the time of their home earth.

Boarding the bus, it was time to visit home for a while.

* * *

Half an hour. That's what the time to transfer over from one world to the next was usually gauged at. Enough time for Pina to creep up on the seats carefully after viewing the exploits of RCT3 and Hitman through our cameras.

Cameras had been safely tucked away in some of our underwear back at Arnus, waiting to be shipped over to Italica's "Camp Kilgore" as the Marines were calling their new operations camp there.

She had sat a row behind us, as she asked us a question we should've told her.

"Are we going to Japan, or the United States of America?"

I adjusted my cap as we both turned around in the dark. "Japan."

"Why are you Americans here then?"

"Because, Japan is allied with America very closely, and Imperials killed some of our civilians too."

She shuffled uncomfortably still. "Have you always been allies?"

I shook my head immediately. "Of course not. Eighty years ago we were horrible enemies."

"How horrible?" I knew her gauging, she wanted to know if there was a chance to strike for peace between her empire and the outside world. Gave her an answer still.

"2.9 million."

"2.9 million what? In damages?"

"2.9 million killed. That is what Japan suffered in their war against us." Itami had kept his head forward as I repeated basic military history. "Over a course of around five years."

"And yet you are allies today?!"

History was an old wound. It always is: scarred over with time and politics and stories from those who lived it.

Faded as they are, they remain for all time.

"Princess, what you see on the other side of this Gate might surprise you, but I advise you to keep a clear head, and if you want to open up talks with us, I advise you to take me and Itami privately, we'll teach you our history. It's only right."

"But… aren't you soldiers? Not teachers?"

"We have degrees, certifications in history."

She only blinked at us, unable to bring up anything else. With that, she nodded and went back to Bozes.

And so the bus ride went on in the quiet of limbo, this place between worlds.

US Marine Engineers however had set up a long ass equivalent of an Ethernet line, all the way from one world to another, along with several other wire based utilities. There were talks of even inhabiting the limbo, but it was one step at a time.

The Italian architectural researchers, and any proud, red blooded Italians with a great sense of their history, had noticed to the upmost degree something that even an uncultured person could assume:

The Gate was Roman in every mortal sense, as for its properties, that was another matter, but it was decided that yes, these people were Roman, Italian, in the modern sense. Mediterranean, hailing from their equivalent of that place.

Whether this was a coincidence, or had signified that the last time this Gate had opened up was in Rome, was of rather pressing issue to those who knew of this information. But it was all theories and hypotheses and subjects we really couldn't follow up on, as long as there was an Empire meaning to invade us out there.

Besides, the history of this world had been a well-kept secret by those who knew, and most of the POWs simply didn't grasp history at all.

Light at the end of the tunnel blasted the windshield.

"Only twelve days… what a shame." Peters had said in the back.

The girls had been all in awe as the world came alive once again around them, and again, we heard the noise and bustle hum through the glass of the bus as the familiar world returned to us, around us.

I looked back into the dark of the Gate. "Oh, don't worry Peters, we'll be going back there soon enough."

The bus had came to a creaky stop in the intersection where the Gate appeared so many months ago and the windows cleared up.

"Hey, Itami!" Cam had shouted in the back, securing away Bannon's personal items as she had stood expectantly outside with Colonel Andrade and a combined guard force of JSDF and US Marines. The Gate had been guarded with a dome, a garrison, and more gates and fences than the North Korean border had once held.

Youji turned around as the Rangers got their bags. "What Cameron?"

"Mind if you take me to the Winter Exhibition later?" Itami had given an affirmative grunt with a thumb up, elbow ribbing me.

"Least someone has good taste in Japanese culture."

"…Fucking weabs."

* * *

Itami had the papers for the transfer from the Special Region to Tokyo, so he went off to the kiosk, Emerson easing everyone out of the bus, First Squad happy to see their squad lead again.

She had an eyepatch over her left eye, but otherwise, she had looked the same, dressed the same as anyone else, albeit with a standard issue M9A3 as opposed the borrowed .45s from the Marines.

"You look nice." As was Masterson's words to her.

She tilted her head expectantly. "And…?"

"No, you really do. Just that. Please, don't push me."

Emerson had yelled across the street as Colonel Andrade took him aside. "You miss your fucking girlfriend Cam?!"

"Like hell I did!"

Andrade, being as old as he was, had knocked his head a few times as the loudness of Emerson's shouts were right next to him, eventually the man leading him to where Itami was handing in the papers at the checkpoint.

"Nice to see you're doing well, Lieutenant Emerson."

"Sorry sir, and yes, we're fully operational, more or less." he said, some grumble from the bottom of his throat coming up as he had stood with his own papers, sliding it to the JSDF personnel who was manning this post at the moment after Itami stepped asides: behind them all, three men from Japanese Intel Headquarters and a very familiar looking MP.

"What's up Itami, Kay."

"Hey, Mitch."

"Friends from the JSDF, go ahead Komakado."

Older man in a tan coat, Itami having noticed that, asides from his dignification, he looked like a seventy year old Spike Spiegel.

The man stepped forward, his two bodyguards, or agents, staying behind. "My name is Komakado, from the Intel HQ. I've been ordered to escort you." his voice was a rather devious one, or maybe it was one that came with the work he did.

Itami furrowed his eyebrows at him. "Public safety?"

Komakado chuckled. "You can tell? That's a hero's six sense for ya."

Itami kept his mouth shut as he looked to Colonel Andrade. The man shrugged, Mitch having silently taken a card out from underneath his shirt on a lanyard: Central Intelligence Agency it had read.

Emerson looked back the Japanese spook, not noticing, even in hindsight, that Mitch was CIA. "Didn't work for me."

Komakado had pulled out a little notebook and thumbed through it, intently staring at the American. "Oh, what a shame, you and Itami are basically equals."

Emerson saw Shino out of the corner of her eyes, having donated her own coat to Chuka as she blushed at the movement, those from another world wide eye'd.

* * *

 _"There a thousand cities like this with a million people each, your highness." Itami said to the princess and her lieutenant, head up and mouth wide at the buildings that seemed to touch the sky._

 _"You're lying." The princess accused as she took off her royal cap and held it tightly against her chest._

 _Lelei, the ever observant one, had noticed the uniformity, the patterns of the buildings within eyesight, and simply shook her head at her. They were not lying, and, although she hid it in her face, it was an incredible sight._

* * *

"You had the second lowest grades in your class during officer training, and only avoided last place because another trainee was injured. After graduation and assignment, you rated "just passing." Your CO got pissed at you and threw you in Ranger Officer School, which you survived."

Itami had told Emerson why that was, months earlier: He had tripped the man purposefully, but subtly. No one ever suspected a thing during that PT run.

Itami had ignored the man's words after that, simply glossing over the information he had well and fully known as he closed that notebook.

"You've done your homework." he said simply.

"Slacker. Otaku. Your reputation on post is horrible…. And yet….You are an S."

Emerson twitched his head at Shino, if only to see her reaction. Not many people had known who Itami was in terms of credentials.

The Special Forces of Japan were modeled after the American Green Berets and Delta Force, on top of being a Ranger, Itami had also been an S as Shino stuffed a scream into her mouth and beat back an embarrassing break down. How the hell did he be these things? It was as much as a question to Emerson as it had been to Shino in all her gaping and unknowing.

He was a tough man though, despite his quirks, and that could be said for all of them there.

"You really did your homework… if a colony of ants…" Emerson had barred his arm across Itami's chest.

"Free rider theory, we use it in politics all the time. Trust me, I'm sure these guys know."

Mitch and Komakado had both put their hands on their hips and nodded. The world needed lazy men like Itami, at least, ideally. Long as he was still fit when it came to crunch time, he was a tolerable addition to society.

Still, being told he was one made his face scowl.

Emerson squeezed his counterpart's shoulder hard for a second, hisF scowl disappearing.

"As for you, Lieutenant Emerson, you are his equal in rank and position alone, but yet you are his opposite in how you attained that."

Emerson shook his head. "The right man…"

Mitch had continued. "In the wrong place, at the wrong time."

"And yet, you are both worthy of salute." And so the spooks had saluted.

Colonel Andrade had been the ranking officer there, his Japanese flawless despite the accent. "Glad to see you boys back okay, but unfortunately you're due at the Diet immediately after lunch. I've heard of the matter regarding the Imperial VIPs and Mitch, Bannon, and Masterson will accompany them while the rest of Hitman goes with you."

Emerson had blinked at this, Itami grating his jaw. "Only three from RCT3 and seventeen from Hitman?"

"Unfortunately the Japanese government seem to have an extra bone to pick with Hitman as a whole, as opposed to Itami's heading of the evacuation of Coda Village… also, given the circumstances, the Battle of Italica will come up."

Itami had sucked in some air and nodded, Emerson shaking his head. "That why the rest of RCT3 back at Arnus, Youji?"

He nodded.

The scrutiny of the world would be on them, and he did not want that. If anyone was to blame, for everything, it was him.

He was the Japanese Hero of Ginza, the monument to every sin committed over there, and worthy he was of judgement that the JSDF needed over there.

As for the Americans… they'd been down this road before.

"Nothing from the USFJ has been spent dictating our responses." Emerson had said to his Colonel.

"There's not one we can make up in time, just tell the truth, you've been trained on this."

"Suppose."

"Bannon's telling the rest of Hitman the same. You'll be briefed on exfiltration by Mitch and Komakoda later. It's gonna give you some time to clear your heads before you head back in, the JSDF and the Marines will start some territory consolidation over there in the meanwhile."

Andrade had looked wearily at Lelei who, though perhaps not entirely initiated with Bannon, had seemed happy to see her okay, albeit with an awkward question of seeing what was left under the eye patch.

"The nomad will have to answer for using that chemical weapons, but… Don't know if we can do anything about that."

Itami pursed his lips as the entire group started shifting back to the bus, two black cars now leading and trailing the idle bus. "She's a very smart girl."

"Which is why I've ordered the Marines to limit her access to the library if she ever finds out we got one over there."

"Why, Colonel?" Emerson asked. The Marines, with the rest of their supplies meant for self- sustenance, had ferried over a library, both physical and digital. Within its documents had laid one thing only a handful of people underneath Overlord's watch had known about: The handling and processing of uranium ores for various uses.

The Japanese, as per its constitution, denied the use of nuclear power in any offensive or defensive capacity.

America, on the other hand, had still hid its nukes in Okinawa, to no one's suspicion.

"Knowledge is the only way this Empire has a chance to beat us, and Lelei, as sweet as she is, is a liability."

"She's a pacifist, colonel." Itami said, almost through his teeth.

"Be that as it may, all of them are dangerous."

* * *

"I know, this is rude, Kay, but, let me ask you a question." Itami had been getting into a progressively and progressively worse mood. To think he used to be such a simple man…

"What, Youji?" I asked, Bannon and Masterson on the seats on the opposite of the aisle, also leaning in for a listen.

"What do you think would've happened if only the JSDF went in?"

I slumped back into my seat, the cushions a nice change as Tokyo went by our windows, the otherworlders engrossed in how many people were on the other side and how this seemed normal to us. To their favor, it was the holiday season, but still…

I looked for an answer so desperately in history, but I found nothing.

"If only the JSDF fought there…"

Maybe Italica wouldn't have had 20,000 raid it and be occupied by its saviors. Maybe that Fire Dragon would've killed them all. Maybe the JSDF would already be sustaining casualties.

Maybe…

In another world, in another universe…. Guess it really didn't matter what I thought as we pulled up to this noodle shop.

In another world, First Lieutenant Itami Youji would've been the main man on the other side of the Gate, the lone Hero of Ginza.

In another world, Tracey wouldn't have lost his family, as we wouldn't have been there at the beginning of it all.

But there were a thousand paths history could've taken, and this was the one we had.

"It's strange, coming back from that place, to here." Bannon had quietly said, even with her destroyed voice. **_"This place doesn't feel like a home I deserve anymore."_**


	11. 1-8: Pax Americana

A/N: Heavy stuff... least how I felt when I wrote it. Soundtrack you should play in the background for the Diet scene should be MGSV's pair of "Beautiful Mirage" pieces. Anyway, review responses:

RipTidez - Thanks for the Diet questions, used or addressed most of them sans the last one. I'll bring that one back up at a further date. Your reviews are often great in affecting this story thusfar, and I expect some comments with this coming chapter, for better or worse with how flawed some of the responses are from Itami and others.

RearMirrors - Yes, I am fully aware I was using derogatory terms with Masterson for the Japanese. This is intentional. There is a certain degree of political correctness that is often thrown out the window when it comes to the life of a soldier, either because it is a delight to take part in it, you need to do it to stay sane, or a thousand other reasons that include a slip of a tongue, but I like to emulate this, perhaps to an exaggerated extent, in this story, going off of, as usual, Generation Kill. I mean, no complaint was brought up when a Marine in this story referred to the roughly helpless Italica raiders as "Hadji", or when I used November, the NATO phonetic alphabet, to refer to the extent of the haul initially coming from the dragon scales.

Hadji, in particular, is a very good example of otherizing people. As was Jap, Nip, or Tojo. It made the enemy easier to kill.

Gendou - Yes. I know what Lelei can do, however the main reason why the spooks are interested in her at present is because she is very versatile and intelligent, all things considered, especially since she made this ambiguous concoction of a chemical weapon on short notice just on word alone.

In general - Regarding the upcoming firefight in about two chapters, I've made my mind up and have it be a hoedown between criminals instead who want a literal piece of the refugees. I'll keep it ambiguous their ambitions, who or why they went for them, but I am dead set on keeping the resort firefight, and will tone down Rory's curbstomp to an extent.

In regards to the other Gate stories, which I might've accidently eclipsed, I do hope someone joins me in writing on my scale: as in, introducing entire countries and militaries to the Gate and follow the original plotline to a point before breaking due to the individual characteristics of those new factors. Hell, what if, and this is courtesy to my MGSV binge recently, Diamond Dogs or Big Boss's army finds this world, or something. Or perhaps have the Gate open up in the middle of good ole Texas and have the first civilians responders beat them back just by the glorious right of the 2nd Amendment alone, the US Military unable to respond fast enough that several militia parties go through the Gate first.

Food for thought.

* * *

 ** _Section 1-8_**

* * *

"God Bless America." had been Emerson's involuntary words as the squad had come back to the noodle shop just after Itami had ordered for the JSDF and the guests. They had just pillaged/bought loads from a McDonalds down the street.

That had gone to the tune of thirty eight Big Mac meals, enough fries to make the Irishman that had been one of the Rangers feel proud of his heritage, and enough sodas to make teeth rot within the day.

It wasn't exactly a good example of an American burger, such as Five Guys or the Mom and Pop stands back home, but it was as American as anything.

Yanagida had given Itami a slip before he had left Arnus: essentially some back pay and a little something something to take the entire group out for some retail therapy for the next three days, as was the plan.

Andrade had done the same, and given the fact that every Ranger was still being paid, they had a considerable money pool.

Live hard, play hard, die hard.

Bannon had started opening one of the Big Mac boxes as the Rangers had forcefully conjoined several tables to sit the platoon sized force, the staff looking on in disdain. Not even the manners to buy something from them. "You know," she said. "One of my friends used to work on an oil rig. He used to do shit like this."

Masterson had already squared away one Big Mac and was going at the fries, giving a rather fanciful thumbs up to those horrified a man could eat a burger that fast. "Like what?" he asked.

"Go off the mainland for several weeks, come back and spend all of the money he made on hookers and blow, and then go back out." she shrugged as she started eating.

"I do miss me American greenbacks, admittedly." one of the Rangers had said, also enjoying his Americana.

So did Bannon. She used to work in real estate, selling parcels of lands out in Montana with her family. Though Masterson's family name had been a bit bigger, her name had its own reputation, at least in regards to net worth in Montana. Reputation enough to draw certain, lying suitors who didn't exactly appreciate who she was as a person.

Long story short because of her now ex-husband, her business went belly up, her life destroyed, and her body made hard by the menial work she had to do to compensate.

Two sides of the same coin, Bannon and Masterson were, in Emerson's eyes.

Products of an American dream lived, fulfilled, but lost, taken away.

Yet here they all were, still fighting for it.

American dreamers in the land of the Rising Sun.

What the hell were they really fighting for on behalf of America on the other side of the Gate? If they wanted revenge for Tracey, it had already come in spades, just shy of half a million people dead in retribution.

But that's how it always starts: an objective, a meaning, a purpose that can be fulfilled, but can leave the people who carry it out in an odd place in the world, for better or worse (often worse).

For Hitman, it was one man they were acting before: For Japan, it was for hundreds.

It was not on their mind as they ate.

The man on the other side of the counter had wisely given the large mass of visitors privacy in the shop, the entrance being signaled as closed as they ate. He looked at Itami with a raised eyebrow.

He pointed at the Americans. "Tourists."

He pointed at the otherworlders. "Cosplayers."

He pointed at himself and his two soldiers. "Off duty."

Chef didn't argue, it was good money either way, leaving the three JSDF soldiers to eat on the counter.

Tomita's face had soured at the rather cheap food. First trip back to Tokyo and he expected something a bit more… fulfilling. He was a big guy, after all.

Itami saw it as he reluctantly broke the egg over his bowl. "Don't complain, Tomita, even a summon by the Diet is seen as a simple business trip, so our budget for one meal is five hundred yen… God knows coffee in Ginza goes for more than that."

"Eh, no sweat off my back." he said.

Before Itami had gotten into his meal, he had looked back at the otherworlders. Heh ad seen their faces of awe and unbelieving as they saw Tokyo once again, even ignoring the American and JSDF who had manned the guard posts around the Gate.

What they had seen in those giant buildings that went to the sky was that some were see through, and some of the men in tan had looked down upon them through those giant structures that defied known resources and building techniques. Just what they saw alone could've made the Imperial Capital shame in its efficient use of space.

 _"It can't be… " the Princess's breath had chilled as she froze at the sight. "People live in them?"_

 _She wordlessly referred to the buildings as more and more military personnel looked at the new arrivals._

 _Logic dictated that such efficiency meant that space was short. "Itami's country must be small then."_

 _Lelei had looked up and down the streets which the Alpha Point had intersected, seeing the telltale signs of more and more people: "Or maybe it is very populated."_

 _And yet how small they had felt was shared all around, unknowing how to move before these glass monsters in the cold air. Tomita was right, things were bigger, and these people had lived a very different life than they had._

 _"To think we may have no choice but to go war with these people…"_

Not that the high calorie, rather rich noodles had done anything to make the princes believe that the JSDF and the US Marines were gods of death.

Not when the meat was soft and the broth was golden.

Food tended to do that to people: stay opinions.

"You figure we would've brought them out somewhere nice. Sushi, perhaps." Itami had said as hit bit back the first few strands of noodles, the Americans relishing in the benefits of one of America's dearest franchises.

Shino had already half finished with her bowl as she answered lightly. "We don't really recognize her as royalty here. I doubt the Americans do."

"I may be half blind as of present, hun, but I'm not deaf." Bannon, and indeed most of the Americans, had heard the Japanese, even above their ransacking of boxes and boxes of hamburgers and fries. She had been nibbling on some fries herself, her eyepatch cupped over her left eye by three strings that wrapped around the front and back of her head.

She had sat down next to Shino as the JSDF soldiers nodded in greeting.

"Nice to see you okay, Sergeant Bannon." Itami said, chopsticks forking a piece of pork into his mouth from the broth.

"Likewise, lieutenant." she nodded as a lightly accusing finger poked at Shino's shoulder. "And I heard you can't quite believe Itami here is both special forces and ranger."

She blew air into her cheeks, eyes again, frustrated.

"I don't get it! He's nothing like you!" she argued, Itami fruitfully shrugging, having gotten used to Shino's disbelief in him.

Bannon had shook her head as she put her beret on the counter, tapping it with her fist. She smiled as best she could, but the doctors had injected something into the left side of her face that left it hard of feeling.

"Rangers, special ops, us men and women of action, we came in many shapes, sizes, and forms. Itami here in battle is no less a Ranger than me, Lieutenant Emerson, or even our retard team two leader."

"Rangers don't like manga!" was Shino's excuse.

Bannon had thumbed over to everyone's favorite blonde cowboy. "His bunk in Yokota is stashed with doujinshi and old OVAs from the 90s."

"…But isn't Lieutenant Emerson the better-"

Shino often forgot to watch her volume, as such, the Rangers were cordially invited to join in the conversation.

"Masterson is a better soldier than me in a lot of regards. The only thing I got on my boy Cam is rank outright." Emerson had defended his sergeant, now five burgers in and a soda guzzling down his throat. "Shino," his voice got serious as he laid back in the kiosk, not exactly caring about the otherworlders right now. "It doesn't matter who we are as long as we are Rangers first. We are soldiers, trained, indoctrinated, formed to the highest pedigree, regardless of anything we are as people. Your lieutenant is a damn fine soldier, and you should be wanting to go to his level, because he's a very good example of it."

"But-" she tried to speak up.

Masterson had spoken up before Emerson could, standing up, his drink pointed at her. "Look here, Whopper Deluxe, _**you want to be more like me?!"**_ Bannon had used her hands to wave off the staff into the kitchen. "You got it all wrong, sweetheart! _ **I WANT TO BE MORE LIKE YOU!**_ "

Powered on by the powers of Ronald McDonald, the Rangers, perhaps a little out of line, had started pounding to a chant on the table.

 _ **"Burger King! Burger King! Burger King! Burger King!"'**_

The Japanese did not know what the Americans meant as they chanted, Emerson and his two sergeants staring at Shino knowingly, unkindly. Of course this behavior wasn't at all fit, but neither was invading another medieval territory and looking forward to slaughtering people there.

The otherworlders had looked on, mystified, their meals finished in the commotion. It was then that the Princess and Lelei had seen, that the Americans and Japanese were different as much as they were allied.

 _ **"Cut it out!"**_ Itami yelled out, and the Rangers had stopped.

"They mean you are a born killer, Shino." Lelei's words had cut through the silence that Itami had waved out at. Itami looked at Emerson for confirmation.

 _ **"Burger King. BK. Born Killer**_ …and you", Emerson pointed at the girl with her staff, Rory's own weapon wrapped up under black fabric. "You've been hanging out with the Marines too much."

She nodded.

After Cameron had downed his last burger, he had simply sat back down, a man whose point was made. A point shared across Rangers.

The rest of lunch went uneventful.

* * *

We had waited outside the suit boutique as Shino had some alone time with Chuka, whom was the only one who needed clothes. This had left us with Princess Lada, Bozes, the remaining JSDF, and Mitch, the other girls browsing inside the store.

Pina and Bozes had been gaping at the markets that had been all around us, normal, everyday people going in and out with little distinction.

Such wealth, such capacity, such inventory of many things that had yet to be seen in the empire: clothes, food, electronics, mystical machines and knick knacks that went beyond all reasoning. All of them, there in Tokyo.

I doubted Lada or Bozes had ever starved or been hungry, but I knew the feeling very intimately, they still obsessed with how busy it was on this sidewalk we were on.

Mitch had simply clacked his heels together as waited in the cold.

"So," I started. "CIA?"

"Probably." he answered.

We all looked at him funny, even the Princess and Bozes.

"I've had a very quiet life these last few years, Emerson, now the Chinese are starting up their old schemes again and suddenly I'm getting a little grey behind the ears to remember who is who and what I have to do." Mitch had said, tucking back his ID into his shirt, his pale complexion full of wrinkles.

He was at heart an old man.

"The situation past the Gate is easy enough for me to handle."

"In regards to….?" I led on.

"Don't worry yourself, Emerson, Itami. The thing about wetwork is that we've always had some sort of leak, mole, or whatever on the otherside. For once in our god damned agency's life, we have nothing to work with."

"…and when you do get something to work with?" Itami asked.

"We don't know what we'll do… Christ. I miss the Cold War."

"I'm not sure I entirely believe you, sir." Itami had been quick enough to remember that this man belonged to the world's most infamous intelligence agency.

"Always the case." Mitch had relented. "How are you taking Tokyo, Princess Co Lada?" he asked on the opposite side of the line we made. She struggled to find a coherent though to answer with.

The Princess had seemed startled by the fact Mitch had responded in perfect, albeit basic, common language. We hadn't even given it a name yet.

"How do you people know our language already?" she asked, concerned.

" _ **Lingua Franca**_." Bannon had said, trying to get her own throat straight and clear. "You cannot win hearts and minds without a common language. It is a lesson we have learned the hard way."

Perhaps, in that way, words can kill.

"…I'm-…" she tried to start as an ambulance out in the distance wailed and died down.

Mitch had smiled as the Princess had stepped a bit closer to her lieutenant. "You should see our homeland, princess. America."

The Japanese had all looked at Mitch wearily, but we had simply stood as stone. I had enough of urban paradises, personally. The Bronx never really set me up to have a good opinion of cities, even with Manhattan down under my ass, New York City, as much as I owed to that place, was not somewhere I would've liked to raise a family.

Talked to Itami once, about why a guy his age hadn't found a family yet in Japan, as brash as that was. We were drunk, but it was still a question. He knew it was cold when he said it would've gotten in the way of his hobby, but the guy was married. Emphasis on was.

Which was entirely odd to me given that him and Risa-chan still looked affectionate… or at least, she did… when he was delivering her food/the alimony.

Their relationship as of present had seemed good enough, at least to my pleasure in getting them to hang out together more…

Little things, Emerson, little things.

The Japanese spook had still been besides us as we waited for the women. "One unofficial visit at a time, Agent Beckett."

"That your last name Mitch?" I prodded.

"Damn, and I was doing so well."

Itami had shuffled as he saw the women leave out of the corner of his eye: Chuka now adorned in a suit. Didn't look half bad at all, being an elf and all.

Shino had passed Itami the receipt silently.

"Glories of capitalism, princess." Masterson had talked up again, unphased by Itami's two glaring eyes and Bannon's one.

"What?" she asked regarding that word: capitalism.

"Free market, mass production, free trade, the right to sell and buy and to make an enterprise out of it. Come on, Princess Co Lada, tell me at least you Imperials have that."

"In those terms yes, but I do not see why you want to point thi-"

"Enough. Sergeant Masterson." I cut them both off as the bus had started up again. More than I in the Ranger group had noticed the men on the roofs above us, leaning on railings, trying not to totally look like the plain clothed Secret Service.

"Eleven, two, and one o'clock high. American or Japanese Mitch? Komakado?" Doc had asked.

"Japanese SOGs." the Japanese spook answered. "Your old buds, Itami."

"If they weren't 3rd Platoon, then probably not." he bluntly said.

Shino had broken her silence as she ferried the women back from their browsing of the fantastical clothes of the modern era, even Rory having picked out something that was just shy of a mourning dress. Up until then we had, to her displeasure, put her up in Wilbur's jacket and some purposefully washed and shrunken skinnies. Rory had tossed Wilbur's jacket my way now that she had clothes that she had deemed "proper" for an apostle.

"You were Mountain Warfare specialized?"

"Eh." he shrugged, all of us getting back onto that, only now we all realizing it, very vulnerable bus.

"I don't suppose we'll be going back in the same way we came out?" Loke had asked as she pressed her face up against the black shaded windows. "Secret will be out once we get to the Diet."

Komakado had turned around in his seat in the front to her. "No, Ranger, we have a plan we'll fill Lieutenant Emerson and Lieutenant Itami into when the time is right, and when that happens we'll have to split this group a bit. Some of you get escort duty, the rest of you have your leave time. You'll have a reconvene time set for the Gate crossover and go from there if it all goes to plan."

"Harris, Loke, Doc, Bannon, Masterson, you're with me on escort duty." I had said with perhaps a bit of a cold voice.

Mitch had looked at me in surprise. "So fast to assume, lieutenant?"

"Chuka." I called into the back for the elf.

"Yes Emerson?" she said sweetly, still getting used to the fabric of her new suit.

"Would you feel comfortable with Ramirez escorting you during the rest of your time here?"

Her ears twitched. "Who?"

The man in question had made some fake "Awwww" sound, he, and most the other people in the bus, had gotten the point.

Perhaps not me, but the women had some fair amount of amiable interaction with Itami, he having taken the "hearts and minds" tactic to heart… given if it wasn't natural to him with his anime and manga backing up his dealings with this fantasy.

That being said, I had just been around them enough for my company to be preferable to anything, along with Itami and his co.

Wouldn't want anyone else to ferry around these folks for however long we were supposed to be here. My butt had felt like it had wanted to be back over on the other side anyway, weirdly. The edginess to get off these comforting linens and be back out in the dirt.

It was a declaration by a dying Vladimir Putin, during his last few months on earth in his autobiography, that "America was fated to stay in the Middle East" forever.

It was an easy feeling to understand seeing as how much I wanted to get back out there for no good reason at all.

However, there was a clause to Putin's statement, one evil thing that no nation had wanted: the mantle of America. The force that propelled an entire nation's soul to sacrifice in the name of moral and ethical values acted upon for a people that was not its own.

I had to think, political man as I planned to be, what our old friend Vladimir would've said nowadays.

The Japanese had been expanding in the Special Region much faster than anticipated, the Marines having only occupied one town: the Japanese, during our departure from the Special Region, actually bringing in more and more supplies meant to establish FOBs.

We knew better.

As for the Japanese… How deceptive was the fact that they had claimed the entirety of the Special Region as their own land: as an extension of Japan. There was no technical invasion, in that sense, but that was the wolf in sheep's clothing.

Cam had taken me aside earlier, after his rant yesterday about who we were, and he told me about what he thought of the Japanese, and one by one the American servicemen in earshot had joined us and agreed:

 _"What Japan is doing, establishing more bases outside of civilian population centers, establishing itself as the new dominant power even when the status quo is still alive, being the god damned foreign force in general… Afghanistan was a large place, sir. This place is an entire world, for all intents and purposes."_

 _"You know we're complicit in this too, sergeant." I responded._

 _"We always are."_

We had clutched our own reports and notes: me and my squad leads, regarding Italica.

A lot more civilian casualties had been performed by the JSDF when they rolled in than we had ever imagined: Mistaken for combatants, those of the civilians we had rounded up before the breach of the walls that had tried to run away in the madness had been shot in the back by the JSDF who had reaffirmed the wall mounting positions.

On top of that reports that several of the RCTs hadn't been as diligent as us and RCT3 had been.

It spoke of callousness, inexperience, and things that were conveniently left out of our knowledge when we were there, but now had to confront on our own.

The bus started moving.

"Are you sure we don't have anyone talking for us when we get to the diet Mitch?" I asked, very scared in all pretenses. Didn't want the first time I stood before a government proceeding to be a political interrogation.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Emerson, but this was on very short notice, and even the JSDF is scrambling. Besides, they asked specifically for faces the public recognized: you and Itami's…. and who else knows about the Special Region better?"

"We're just soldiers, Mitch, we don't have agendas to push or an image to control. If you let us talk…" What was left unsaid by me as Itami had been very much intently listening was if any of us had a slip of a tongue.

The way Itami had proclaimed that one right, even if it was a mistake in the heat of the moment, that Japan alone could occupy the Special Region, had been disturbing.

Mitch turned around in his seat, addressing us all: "I'm sure you all will do fine."

* * *

The Princess had given the Sergeant Masterson a knowing stink eye: they had such thing as a free market too, so it was a tactless display by him to note that out. But that feeling that had written in his cold blue gaze was something that, up until now, was totally and unbearably true: superiority.

As a princess and a knight herself, she had not felt that feeling over her in a long time, and for that to have happened would've required a force greater than royal blood: something greater than an empire.

This was that something. This city alone was a greater threat than any of those soldiers, any of these foreign armies, she realized.

This was something that might've laid in her empire's future, but that was stolen in a storm of hellfire from these soldiers from another world.

"Lelei." she had said quietly. They knew her lingua franca, and that phrase had entirely been understood by her, it was of her language. The nomad had looked over from her visual study of the buildings around, so desperately wondering how so much glass could've been tempered for these buildings, wondering why they all seemed impossibly tall.

"Yes?"

"What manner of magic is this all?"

She had shook her head in response. "I do not feel the presence of any magical force here." she had shied away for a second as she looked at her palms. Perhaps it was the weather, but she felt numb. "It is…cold."

Rory had simply laid her head on the cold window, still enjoying her new dress, her breath painting the window with haze. "This entire world has had its senses numbed, this isn't what I expected from a world where these soldiers have been bred from."

"What do you mean, apostle?" Bozes had asked, head tilted and eyes a concerned.

"Killing is an act to be fully considered, fully reveled in, but yet…" she had gazed out into that blue sky above and saw a metal beast fly. Past the shock of this world's general largeness, it was a cold world that calmed the senses she had, but not those of her compatriots by fate. "To these people, killing is no more an act than eating, breathing."

"A warrior culture?" the princess asked.

"No." Chuka had said as the bus passed several armed military vehicles, falling in line as the Diet had come into sight. "They have killed so many people, it doesn't matter to them anymore."

Rory raised an eyebrow at the elf. "Killing is supposed to matter."

"And yet, to these people, they have no more barriers left to break."

Lelei had found her staff in her grasp once again from the floor, and held it close. "No matter what these people try to say to you, Princess Pina Co Lada, remember that they naturally came from we did. They once walked as we did, and they have committed worse atrocities than your empire."

She sucked in breath as the escort vehicles started seriously building up. "They're only human."

Rory had looked back at Lelei, a wondering look in her eye. "How do you know they've committed worse?"

"It is the logical conclusion that the weapons which I used during Italica were something not allowed to be used in this world, therefore, these weapons have been used by them once before, to the extent of a calamity."

" _ **Then remember, Lelei La Lalena, you will answer to your usage of those weapons too.**_ " Mitch had said from the front, well aware of the conversation they were having.

Silence.

* * *

 _ **Japan – The National Diet Building - Tokyo**_

* * *

Even as all but two of my Rangers had gotten off the bus in front of Japan's highest government building, it didn't do much considering the military personnel present had far and away dwarfed what I brought to the table:

Japanese SOF, security, the rest of the US Army Rangers in Japan in full kit, choppers flying overhead.

Bannon and Masterson had barred off the two royals from following the rest of the passenger off. Tomita and Shino had stayed on as well.

"You're not officially supposed to be here. If anyone that doesn't need to know knows you're here, great danger might come." As said the sergeant.

"But I need to stop-!" she had said irrelevantly.

I spoke up. "I don't intend to make this situation worse, Princess Lada, you are our ally, as far as I am concerned, right Lieutenant Itami?"

Itami nodded. "Right, Lieutenant Emerson."

"We'll take care of them." Bannon had said simply, Masterson nodding with a rare, actual affirmative.

Itami looked to his two sergeants: "Kuribayashi. Tomita?"

"We've got it. Sir."

And the bus went on, leaving me and my eighteen Rangers with Itami and the refugees, the Japanese spook having gone with the bus, Mitch coming along with us.

He had drawn from underneath his winter coat a KAC PDW, getting behind us and ushering us forward.

"Quite a lot of people are still not happy we're over there. Religious extremists, anti-imperialists, civilian and military contractors that we've denied access, things of that nature." he said as we were rushed before the marble walls of the Diet. "Got wind of a few plots. Folks from Langley had to bust out the old workbooks and the Japanese had to ask for some of our notes in return. Been a long time since they've had to deal with terrorism."

Itami had given a glare at Mitch. It was a reaffirmation of the role Japan had been taking on.

America had been dealing with that ugly state of war that had cursed it ever since 2001.

This was a fact I had to take on in great sorrow as an American born in the year I was: I had not seen a world before September 11th, 2001. I was born into an America that was always in the Middle East.

I had not seen America's soul change, for it always was as it was.

Masterson, Bannon, my elders of at least three years, they all tried to talk of the world before 9/11 if they could remember it, but they couldn't.

Itami had far and away realized, that there would be a coming generation where Japan had not existed without them inhabiting the Special Region.

Media had still been onsite, my Rangers having created a protective circle around the refugees as we were ushered past the front door of the imposing Diet building.

"Deliberations start in two hours. Make your way into the chambers and just do you, Ranger."

And Mitch had left us as if we were just bystanders, nothing to say that the fact we were the main attraction today.

Inside those highest halls, it seemed like another day.

"Follow me." Itami had said, and we had followed.

It was just by habit, as Itami had opened a set of large brown doors, we had flinched as we thought we saw gunfire.

No. It was only the flashes from the media stands above.

Loke had raised her hand as Harris took it all in stride. He had been used to this, at least as a collegeball player. A good two rows of seats had been cordoned off for us to our left in the chamber of politicians and advisors.

"You going to be alright?" Itami had asked of Chuka.

As we all slowly made our ways to our seats, the cameras getting full shots of us for the world, she had simply straightened out her suit's jacket.

"I will be."

* * *

The bus, having been found out it had been the transport the entire day, had been a bit of a boogeyman by the media as it turned out, but seeing as, supposedly, the VIPs had all gotten off at the Diet, the bus was left alone to go a few blocks down into a parking garage.

Masterson had been watching a stream of FOX News from his phone as they had waited in civilian and military traffic, the topic of hour having been the hearings about to take place.

That's when Hitman, Itami and the refugees had walked in to the note of the reporter's alert: the refugees had been behind Itami.

"What did you think about being a Hero of Ginza anyway, Cam?" Bannon had asked as she leaned in to look on. He was the third of the three, the soldiers who came to duty just by chance.

He had scrunched up in his seat. "Nothing much really. Hero don't feel right anyway."

"Well, you do have a medal to your name."

"Like a medal ever made things better. Way I see it, a hero's only as good as the people calling them a hero." He had been well aware that the Japanese spook had been looking right at him, even as he told Bannon. "Shame you weren't there too, Lisa."

"I think I've taken my pound of flesh from the Imperials. Same with the Marines. Saw it in their eyes. They got to kill and now they just want to leave."

To take a life was nothing more than a souvenir in that world. The amount is one thing, to say that you did was another. "My first kill was at Ginza, you know." he said thoughtfully. "Seeing them roll over the streets and kill innocents, it was very easy to gun them down in turn. Didn't see them as human… but then you get these refugees and suddenly I'm thinking about what the fuck we do to these people after we-… you know what, just a thing every soldier asks eventually."

"You Americans had the answer though." the Japanese spook had said.

They did.

"Yeah, well, make sure you find that answer yourself, sir." Bannon had said as the bus had crawled into the underground.

All the while, Masterson's phone had been going on and on.

 _"…rumors from sources in the Pentagon conflict in this: One batch of rumors state that the US is ready to ramp up further military involvement in the Japan's Special Region after this massive engagement. The other is to the contrary: America should pull out before the Japanese drag this country again into another unconventional war."_

* * *

 ** _Four Months since the Ginza Incident_**

 ** _3:15 JST_**

 ** _Japan – The National Diet Building - Tokyo_**

* * *

President Dirrel's statements regarding the "Tragedy at Italica" had actually come off as something scathing toward the Japanese. Half of it was condemning the Japanese for perpetuating the conditions for such an event to take place, the other half was regarding not heeding the advice that I hadn't heard myself given to the Japanese from Pierce and several of the remaining Second Iraq War officers.

Hazama either never got that advice or brushed it off to the side. I had whispered quietly to Itami in our seats what the hell that was about and he simply shrugged.

 _"This isn't the Middle East. I see no need to follow the new American doctrine here."_ Itami quoted to my horror.

The media was having a field day with us, as if we were celebrities, the camera flashes toward our refugees unkind to their unconditioned eyes. It had felt rather sensational, if that had been the appropriate word.

They went on silently after the chairman had done the formalities introducing himself and the speakers from the Japanese government today: humanitarians, military advisors, people who disapproved of us in general.

How civil they were for such an uncivil subject.

"May those called for this hearing please rise and identify yourselves starting from the right most seat in the first row and continuing from there from left to right sans the refugees."

I blinked. This wasn't usually how these hearings went.

Itami had gone first then. There was a little determination in his step that had been so unlike him, seriosity: purpose that kept his two feet grounded in his uniform. I had told what the male speaker had meant to the refugees as the lieutenant had gone up, they were to stay seated. No need to create the shitstorm of a century just yet.

"I am First Lieutenant Itami Youji. Currently assigned to the Special Task Force investigating and pacifying the Special Region. Leader of the Third Recon Team as established by General Hazama."

"Witness Itami, please sit."

As said the booming voice from the speakers. The refugees had got on edge as that voice echoed, Itami had put on a kind face and simply told them all was right as he had sit back down.

Next was me, walking up to that desk, four microphones just barely at my chest level. I had simply tucked my hands behind my back and talked.

"My name is Kristian Ridgway Emerson. Second lieutenant in the United State's military service. 75th Ranger Regiment, Special Forces, currently assigned command of "Hitman" in the US deployment as adjunct to the JSDF, a US Ranger liaison force with the 7TH MEU."

"Witness Emerson, please sit."

And so I did to little sweat on my forehead.

Harris had went up as Itami had whispered again to me. "One day they're giving us medals and another they're about to blame us for 20,000 dead."

"How do you know they're here to blame? We are, officially, just here for questioning."

"Just the looks in these people's eyes…"

Harris had went on, his imposing form not exactly playing well with the microphones. He spoke anyway. "Private Brian Harris. Assigned under Hitman's First Squad. Is all."

He gave me a light look as he sat down. He having decided that they did not need anything more.

"Corporal Talia Loke. First Squad."

 _"Je suis Decker Lamareux. Caporal. Second Squad. Combat medic."_

"My name is Donald Nutt. Corporal. First Squad."

"Private Jameson Black. First Squad. Marksman."

"George Ramirez. Sergeant Ramirez. Second Squad."

"Corporal Aaron Peters. Second Squad."

And so on and so forth for the rest of the almost twenty Rangers.

With that, the discernable witnesses had rattled off their names and the hearing had started in earnest. So began the greatest national diet broadcast the world had ever seen. The eyes of the world had been on us, and I sunk into my seat. Thankfully the attention directed toward me had been instead directed toward the refugees, Rory's hidden halberd very much under wraps and on the floor.

Hers was not the only weapon that was being concealed, I having pulled my thigh holster a bit higher.

The speaker for the house had adjusted his microphone as he had pulled us all in: "We will now begin testimonies from the witnesses concerning incidents inside the Special Region. This hearing was called for, for the record, regarding events that included the deaths of refugees, and we will start with that topic, however it is in the interest of this hearing that we not dwell on that and instead approach, eventually, the "Battle of Italica"… I yield to Diet Member Kouhara Mizuki for the first round of questions."

A woman had come from the opposite side of the room. Older woman, but there was something of a fire in her eyes as she brought a cardboard display up.

I had a certain respect for politicians who had gotten emotional, had been human above it all. I was an aspiring one above it all. Itami, not so much, but I had my civilities about me regarding the public servants. That being said I kinda wish we did kill that giant fire dragon and drag its carcass back through the Gate just to say we did our best given this woman's point that she wanted to make, written out in black and white on that board.

 **478+ Civilian Casualties**

 **150 from the Koda Village Evacuation**

 **38 from misc. evacuations from other JSDF Recon Teams**

 **290 from the Battle of Italica – Friendly Fire**

"This is a question to all of the military personnel here. In a world where we have gone to great measures to cut down on civilian casualties, even in unconventional and guerilla warfare, how can half a thousand people be cut down in the span of a few days under the watch of the Special Task Force? 290 being from our own weapons?" she said, calmly. This answer was deserved. It really was. During the last half of the 2010s America had to give these answers regarding its drone program, not to its own people, but to the world.

During the Second Battle of Fallujah of the Iraq War, civilian casualties were, officially, chalked up to around 800 civilians killed during that particular engagement. For one battle, 290 and counting supposedly, we did okay. It didn't make me feel any less dark thinking about it.

Itami had looked to the speaker, sharing eye contact as he nodded. "Witness Itami." he had called, and he stood to address her.

She had been a noted humanitarian, a bit heavy on pushing for those budget cuts to the JSDF that came back to bite them in the ass regarding Japan's current force build up in the Special Region.

He breathed tiredly before talking: "Unfortunately, civilian casualties are an inevitability of any war, especially in such a conflict where the opposing force is of a lesser culture than us and are, in our view, terrorists. In regards to the evacuation of Koda Village, I feel deep regret for the loss of so many, however I, along with my Recon Team and Lieutenant Emerson, who was with me during that evacuation, are very glad that we were able to save those that did not perish."

"And do you feel that RCT3 could've taken better action; the JSDF as a whole as well, in order to secure the safety of these evacuees?"

Itami had been quick to answer. In hindsight a thousand different choices are always apparent: better or worse paths. Yet here they were because they went down one path.

"During the evacuation period, the main JSDF force and the Marine contingent were occupied with securing Arnus Hill, the area around the Gate on the otherside of the one in Ginza, as well as conservatively establishing itself in solitude in the region. If, perhaps, the main force was available, and able to be called in order to assist all of the Recon Teams regarding evacuations, yes, this would've been the best possible course of action. However I, as commander of RC3, had made the decision to deal with the resources we had. My dissertation regarding the evacuation should be made public soon, following this hearing." he bowed and simply awaited for the speaker to allow him to sit, which he did.

"Lieutenant Emerson, is what Lieutenant Itami saying true? In what do you have to say in regards to his statement just now?" the Diet member had asked. I looked to the speaker and he gave me the address for me to stand up.

"Respectfully, Miss Kouhara, Lieutenant Itami's analysis of the situation, both in hindsight and in the present as it was, would've been the same decision I would've made. Our main force was not capable of assisting us at that time, and it was our duty to ferry non-combatants to safety given that a D-Specimen, or an A-Class animal, was destroying the surrounding towns."

"And you and Lieutenant Itami's team had dealt with this A-Class?"

"To the best of our abilities, yes. Unfortunately we were unable to deter or preemptively deal with the threat before it had taken the lives of these refugees."

She had not been mad at all, but rather, observant, looking for any deceit or lies in my words: any source of complacent PR bullshit. But there was none. She nodded.

"My compatriot, Suzuhara-kun, will pursue the engagement with the A-Class, as a note."

"Thank you for noting, Miss Kouhara."

"Moving along with the current subject however, it has been stated that Recon Team Three engaged in combat with several refugees?" she asked. I knew too well.

"That is correct. While the JSDF portion of RCT3 was attending to the logistics issues of the evacuation: helping cargo and person being moved out of their homes, me and my two team leaders: Staff Sergeant Cameron Masterson and Staff Sergeant Lisa Holmes Bannon, were preforming non-lethal peacekeeping activities."

"In what situations called for such activities?"

"Refugees stirring up civil disputes regarding property and the distribution of several public materials. Rest assured, ma'am, no permanent damage was observed by any of us."

"Then how do you explain the casualties from the Battle of Italica? Was this same restraint observed then?"

Itami had grunted once to get my attention. "I cede the floor to Lieutenant Itami."

The speaker had given Itami permission to replace me. "The enemy force composition was composed of both Imperial regulars and plain clothed raiders, thus, when some of our restrained civilians tried to vacate from the battle site, we had judged at the time they were hostiles. We deeply regret any innocent lives taken, however the death of civilians, though tragic, is unfortunately an inevitable consequence of the type of warfare the enemy demonstrates: a reckless, indiscriminate one."

"We find it disturbing, however, that the JSDF is the only ones recorded to have gunned down civilians based on poor intelligence. There are multiple grounds to bring war crime charges up, and thus further investigation into this operation."

"The Americans have taken oversight the rule of law in war and have the Geneva Convention always in mind, as is vice versa. We check and balance each other. Any civilian casualties, in true form, rest on the shoulders of the opposing force for forcing such circumstances upon Italica, and indeed, even the evacuations and the noted scorched earth tactics we have been observing."

"So you cede all blame from the JSDF then simply because of circumstance? The justification of killing civilians is that of confusion?"

"It's not a justification. It's just the explanation." Itami said, coldly, fast. " _ **I never intended to hurt anybody."**_

* * *

Isoroku Suzuhara had been a JSDF veteran, his left leg lost, not in combat, but in during an aid relief mission in country that left his leg buried underneath the rubble of a fishing port along Japan's south.

It was because of that missing limb that he had proudly displayed with a limp and a metallic clunk to his step, that people assumed he had lost it in combat.

He didn't, but he lost it doing something a bit more noble.

Kouhara had finished her questioning after a military advisor, a man from the JSDF's higher echelons, had echoed Itami's analysis of the treatment of the refugees.

They did their best, and that was what she wanted to hear, even after she had gone on a mini-rant that it was ultimately up to Japan to take care of its people, even those in a land such as the Special Region.

Of course it didn't end without much criticism regarding the fact, for the first time, Japan had notably killed civilians, no matter the case. It was the first occasion ever since the Second World War.

The advisor had said simply it was indeed an aspect of war that the Japanese needed to accept.

My Rangers had shifted uncomfortably as they heard that rhetoric.

"I know in war that much of the decisions we make on the battlefield are circumstantial, based on the here and now, but what set of circumstances led you to believe it was correct for you to use your JSDF compatriots as bait, Lieutenant Emerson?" he said, his voice gravelly and his hair thinning out.

"Their position was appropriate for the request, and the circumstances simply being we needed our target to be distracted otherwise."

"So you were willing to sacrifice these men and women for the sake of lining up a good shot?"

"We all were willing to put our lives on the line in order to save these refugees, Major." I addressed him by his retired rank. "If I was in Itami's place, and he was in mine during that engagement, I would've followed those orders to a T."

"Under the circumstances that you were informed of what you were doing, which Lieutenant Itami had no indication of which."

"The heat of the moment dictated what details I had let out. I have since apologized to RCT3 regarding the nature of the incident."

"Yet why did you not alert them to your strategy as you had disembarked their vehicles? Perhaps to claim some glory again, Lieutenant Emerson?"

The side of my mouth twitched and my eyes furrowed. "I didn't join my service for glory, Major."

"As says the man who went charging into Ginza."

"As says the man who went charging into Ginza for a comrade. Everything I do is for the greater good. This baseless accusation is based only on the fact that _**I am an American.**_ "

His own eyes twitched. He had gone through the same line of questions with Itami before me, and he had said he had acted in the moment, as I had, and he understood what I was doing on some level.

"You Americans have no right to be policing on Japanese soil."

"As party to the Mutual Defense Treaty that Japan and American maintains, we do. Even if the Special Region has been claimed by Japan, it has not been recognized by the international community as such." In my mind I had wanted to add in one more thing: an example, but if I said that this hearing would collapse. I wanted to say "-much like Manchuria during World War Two and the period before it."

I held my tongue in though.

China had been bringing enough old wounds up.

The military advisors hadn't been playing sides, and he had taken to his own microphone for a second, for the record. "Let it be known that, despite current deliberations at the United Nations, the Special Region is currently unrecognized as being held by Japan…" he had said that with much more grit than I had appreciated, but it got the point across. No more than Israel owned Palestine, and vice versa.

"America does not hide behind pretenses anymore, Major." The history I would bring up would be the wounds we had inflicted on ourselves. "This world does not have WMDs. This world is not under the threat of communism. This world poses no actual threat to us militarily. Operation Odyssey Ultimatum is simply, and only, the broad term for the American adjunct deployment with the JSDF into the Special Region in order to only bring to justice those responsible for those innocent dead during the Ginza Incident. That is our objective, out in the open, and if there is any glory attached to that, it is only incidental, not our aim."

A flurry of pictures had been taken as I bowed out of that topic, both of us knowing that any further comments would end very aggressively. Major Higaki, during the delivery of one of my reports on the RCTs, had asked if any of them had identified that if the Empire had been a democracy.

 _ **As if that mattered.**_

"America then claims to only be adjunct, supportive, of the JSDF?"

"Correct, Major."

"Then why was it the Marines that have so far led every combat action seen on the other side of the Gate? The question of Glory, comes up again, especially regarding the use of Richard Wagner's musical piece, most often associated with the grandeur of the Vietnam War. Who is really leading this operation? America or Japan?"

"To my knowledge, it is simply coincidence that the Marines have been in the best position to respond to most, if not all of the combat engagements thus far, given that their duties do not extend toward upkeep and fortifying of Camp Omega, or Arnus as the JSDF refers to it still… plus, this does not mean that the JSDF has not engaged in combat alongside the Marines, Italica still very much in my mind, the JSDF's Fourth Combat Team securing the city's perimeter swiftly and effectively."

"Still, eighty men compared to nearly 550 Marines and a platoon of American M1A1 main battle tanks certainly speaks another story. The fact that the MEU has seen fit to deploy the aging Harrier attack aircraft also speaks towards the urgency that America seems to want to deploy military power over there."

"The force composition of the 7th MEU is available publically and on request, Major, and if there any additional components to America's forces there, which is now far and away outnumbered by the JSDF despite the aforementioned agreed on terms, I cannot speak for them as I have no knowledge."

He glared at me. "What is America's interest in the Special Region, now that one of its military units has seen it first hand?"

I raised my hand. "I cannot speak for America's interest in the Special Region, if there is any at all. We are there on an objective. Not a special interest. If there are any at all, it is, I believe, conjecture that has no bearing on our mission." I had sworn an oath not to lie, but I could not confirm my own suspicions regarding the four tanker crews and their work history. "Furthermore, Japan designates the movements in the end of the Special Task Force. It is for this reason the 7th MEU, despite its capability as a fast moving attack force, has not proceeded to lay siege to the Imperial Capital."

The Marines, after all, had taken Baghdad twenty one days after Iraqi Freedom started. In the Special Region, maybe it would take one week.

"Major Suzuhara, Colonel Andrade of the United States Forces Japan has the floor."

All of my Rangers had flung their head up as Godfather made an impromptu appearance.

He was there in his dress uniform, same as all of us, and as the Major had been forced to sit back down he had taken to the stand as the cameras went off.

"This is a question for First Lieutenant Itami." he said in English. Itami's translator bug in his ear had started working. "What is Japan's interest in the Special Region, seeing as, regardless of UN recognition, a claimed part of the territory of the State of Japan?"

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

" _I have sworn upon the altar of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."_

 _-Thomas Jefferson, regarding the XYZ Affair._

* * *

Itami had replaced me at the stand. It had been a back and forth game between me and him, my Rangers and the refugees left quiet and staring into the lights of the Diet.

"As a part of the territory of Japan….uhm," I had given a grave look at Itami. "We will intend to treat the people fairly, as citizens of Japan, however regarding the resources that the Special Region has we will negotiate with owne-"

"So you intend to use the Special Region as a new source of materials and resources for Japan."

"I cannot speak for Japan's interest in the same way that- well… I rescind my statements."

The damage was done by Itami, and the cameras had been going off.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Italica – Camp Kilgore**_

* * *

"And that is why you don't give a soldier a politician's job." Sevson had said as he sipped at coffee, the reconstruction of Italica still in full swing, blood still very much on the streets as bodies were continuing to pile up on that giant funeral pyre that Myui had greenlit under supervision with the Rose Order.

Freeman had shrugged, he was more focused on the other reports coming in as opposed to the internet radio connected to the other side of the Gate.

"Japan has located two more FOB sites and are starting to set up shop. One on the site of that burned down forest, the other a few clicks north east from here by Roche Hill. We gonna do anything about it?"

Sevson had shook his head as he sat on that balcony, looking as the funeral pyre, metaphorically meant for the entire Empire, go up into the sky as the smell of burnt flesh perpetuated. "Let the JSDF dig their graves."

 _Serves them right for not listening to us,_ he thought.

He remembered the arguments Hazama had with Overlord. The heated dispositions with the refugees regarding what heart and minds really entailed and how you were supposed to carry out such a doctrine.

The JSDF had sent over several medical stations in Italica and started the usual aid work, shooting up the locals with inoculations and medicines that were a thousand years above these people's times. The Marines never asked for such assistance, but it came anyway to the town of their caretaking now.

They didn't complain, but hearts and minds did not come from simply shooting dead viruses into the bloodstreams of people who had bigger problems to come, both from the Empire, and, perhaps, the JSDF themselves.

* * *

 _ **Japan - ? - Tokyo**_

* * *

And so despite everything, the princess could not make this simple meeting between two officials a peace conference. No matter how hard she had wanted peace, no war, she was told it was not the time or place, and as she had grasped that notebook of six thousand POWs, names that she recognized written on its paper, her words held no wait, as much as Bozes tried to say otherwise.

"They must've listened to you princess! You're their only link to the Empire!"

"They don't need one… the only reason they're having these talks at all is because they think themselves a better people than us. Their high horse is what is saving us."

To her, there was so little actually stopping these people from doing the absolute worst with the most righteous reasons: neither word, nor wall, could stop them.

So as the princess had looked out to the skyscrapers through the floor she was on in that building, waiting for the Japanese to finish up their business and allow them out, the two Americans who had followed them out kept them at a distance.

Bannon had grabbed the cigar out of Masterson's hand before he lit it.

"Manners… and I don't want you to ruin your voice." she said with her own raspy one.

Masterson had given a half, understanding nod as the two looked at the backs of the two diplomats, they having just seen the Diet roar to life on Masterson's phone as Itami's tongue slipped again on the implication that Japan was going to use this Special Region's resources for their own intent. It wasn't protest over the fact that they were going to do it, it was the fact that it was said outright, that it was a brash statement by Itami that overstepped all the "necessary steps" meant to fully "integrate" the Special Region into the world.

The two Japanese sergeants had walked out of the room behind them, the Americans now being in the middle between the pairs.

Looking back and forth, the Americans had only looked at each other, not as soldiers, but simply as Americans. "What have we gotten into?" Bannon asked.

Masterson brushed his fingers gently against Bannon's before turning away toward the elevators. "History, as we know it." he answered.

* * *

 _ **Japan – The National Diet Building - Tokyo**_

* * *

"Lelei la Lalena, according to the reports of a Sergeant Kurokawa of RCT3, my equal in the field in RCT3, is perfectly human as she had said earlier. Now regarding her use of magic…" Doc had rattled on in the heat of the moment.

The shitshow had continued from Itami's redacted statement earlier, forever emblazoned on live TV. That had been with the introduction of the refugees:

 _My name is Lelei la Lalena, I am a nomad from, as you know it, the Special Region. I have always resided in Imperial territory and are currently under the tutelage of a wizard by the name of Cato El Altestan._

 _Yes. I am trained in magic._

 _Yes, I do understand Japanese proficiently._

 _No. The JSDF nor the Americans have abused my abilities._

 _I am fifteen, yes._

 _I was not coerced by them into combat during the Battle of Italica. I, as a nomad, are expected to fend for myself if the situation calls for it._

 _On behalf of all the refugees, I report that yes, the JSDF and the American treatment of us has been without exception and "humane". All of our needs were met: clothing, food, a place to live, spiritual needs satisfied, and leisure and pleasure when appropriate. There is no reason to complain._

 _Neither American or Japanese, I believe, are at complicit fault for any casualties._

* * *

 _I am Chuka Luna Marceau, daughter of Hodor Marceau, elf from the Marceau clan._

 _Yes, these ears are real. Would you like to touch them?_

 _I am also 165 years old._

 _Yes, these men and women acted appropriately during the Battle of Italica… however I cannot say in regards to the dragon attack on the refugees._

 _I… was unconscious. The JSDF, Itami… they came to my village and tried to save any survivors from this flame dragon. I fear that- I…. I… me and my f-father survived._

* * *

 _I am Rory Mercury, apostle for Emroy, and I live and die for my faith._

 _Emroy is the God of death, and in order to appease my god, I live, I breath, I eat, and I kill for them. I am the conduit in which the dead of war find peace in, in the end._

 _No. I do not feel the deaths here, for some reason. This world is…_

 _No. I am not in mourning, and this I carry is a religious artifact. It would be disrespectful of you to confiscate this._

 _As 961 years old, I agree with the mass of this senate that the JSDF has done no wrong in the actions they have carried out so far. I have seen such a question asked and answered-_

…

 _Yes, I am 961 years old. My appearance is merely the state of which I was when I was selected as Emroy's apostle._

 _My parents died a long time ago, and any loss of life to me is… inconsequential, personally. I do say, perhaps it is my opinion that would be most valued in this hearing._

* * *

I felt bad for Doc having to explain the concept of magic, sweating bullets up there.

"-and I do remind you, this is merely conjecture, but what Lelei, and those who are able to wield as such, refer to magic is what we believe to be the direct manipulation of natural forces: fire, electricity, wind, and the like. Those able to manipulate these forces rely on the understanding of alchemical elements which are not present here on Earth, but, to all intents and purposes, Lelei, Rory, and Chuka all have trace examples on them that allow them to use magic if necessary. As to the specific identification of these elements, we're still trying to find out on our own, however, in time as the local population becomes more used to us, we will find out more from magic users like Lelei."

The Canadian had sit down with a large breath, Lelei having looked into the crowd and nodded at the combat medic's assumption. She was very much willing to teach the sacred arts… but not without equal knowledge.

"Witness Lalena." the speaker had called her to the stand, which she stood up again to.

Again, Miss Kouhara had been the top dog of the hearings, her questions thoughtful, but nonetheless grating against us.

"So, in order to have the use of magic, one must, in laymen's terms, be of a certain intellectual pedigree to fully appreciate it, yes?"

"Do you mean to say that I am smart?"

"Of course, dear."

"I've trained in the arts of magic ever since I was a younger child."

"Magic is not the only extent of your abilities, Miss Lalena."

"How so?"

A picture of corpses was brought up on a cardboard: the very first photo publically released from the other side of the Gate had been the bodies from Italica. Bodies burned, melting, spotted with red, scabby flesh, their tongues exploded, eyeballs leaking, skins a thousand different colors but natural. The only thing shared between all those bodies were that they were dead.

Loke brought her hand up to her mouth reflexively as all but the most hardened of us Rangers looked away, Chuka looking to the floor and avoiding the sight entirely.

"Post-battle reports amounts of hydrogen cyanide, Soman, and mustard agents on nearly all corpses that display these injuries, and according to the dissertation provided by First Lieutenant Itami and 2nd Lieutenant Emerson, you were responsible for the deployment of, and I quote from Emerson's report, "highly volatile bottle bombs meant to deny the enemy passage and create chokepoints."

Of all the things to be the first picture released…

This was a game they were playing. They needed an excuse. This was their WMD.

"Is the production of such a weapon you used during the Battle of Italica common knowledge in the Empire?"

I gripped the arm rests in my seat hard. _**Not again.**_

 _ **Please God.**_

Lelei's face was still that same neutral, that same unknowing, but all too knowing.

"The Empire has knowledge of chemical warfare in its rudimentary form, and, although it is commonly known as a fanciful idea that has been buried underneath current Imperial tactics and development… they are capable."

Miss Kouhara had leaned in on her microphone.

"So the Empire is capable of-"

Lelei, in her all too eagerness to answer, had given an old one:

"Yes. _**In some form, the Empire would be able to replicate the chemical weapons of which we have seen during the Battle of Italica from me.**_ "

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _"If we had to do it over again we would do exactly the same thing."_

 _"Exactly the same thing?"_

 _"Yes, Sir."_

 _Dick Cheney, in regards to the invasion of Iraq, 2004._

* * *

As the uproar in the Diet had started, Lelei had tried to say something that she had gotten the method by observing the JSDF brew napalm, and the Marines talk about chemical weapons, but that wasn't as clear as that simple fact that had sprung America to war so long ago:

 _ **The opposing force is capable of making a form of WMDs.**_

I thought, at worst, they would blame Lelei for using these weapons, but the fact that she did make them by herself, more or less, with magic…

It sprung the Diet to action with more aggressive questions.

 _How easy was it for you to do this?_

 **It took me less than a few hours.**

 _Why did you make this?_

 **I wanted to explore the capabilities of the combat theories the JSDF and the Marines have in practice.**

 _Will you continue to do this?_

 **As long as I am permitted, for the health of the coming relationship between your world and ours.**

The world fell apart for us, as we saw it repeat again before our eyes, the deliberations, the hushed conversations, the need, the reasonings, the excuse. The same words, but in a different language, by a different people. These people had their 9/11, now they had their WMDs.

In my horrifying inner thoughts of what was to come, Loke had stood up and gone to the post with a question, the Diet's tension at the seams.

"20,000 people killed in a span of one day is certainly up to scrutiny of whether or not it was a crime against the laws of war."

"Whether or not these people are classified as terrorists, or regular military, we have proceeded to engage them simply as regular combatants all the same and have afforded them the rights that such conflicting sides are afforded in accordance to the Geneva Convention. Of the 20,000 killed, the quarter million in total counting the original counter attacks against Arnus Hill, we have claimed around 10,000 additional prisoners on top of the 6,000 already housed here in Japan and any investigation into their conditions would yield that we are treating them fairly in the same respects as the three refugees here." Loke had her time up on the stand, many of the Diet members wanting to run the same questions more or less through our subordinates to see if something cracked, but it was not so.

"These people are very willing to kill their own." she continued. "The battle of Italica was, without our intervention, an Imperial vs Imperial case."

"So, the JSDF stood in the Battle of Italica as peacemakers?" the questioner forgot about the Marines.

"As it was. Yes."

"So the JSDF has done everything right so far to the best of its abilities?"

Loke had looked back at me, licking her lips, not sure of what to say. I looked away, if only to avert my gaze. We were both thinking the same thing. Every American who was there thought the same thing. Me. Her. Colonel Andrade. My chalk.

The Japanese were not used to fight war like this at all, and they imitated an old version of us. A very easy form to imitate. A nation, warriors, of sound and fury, whose past had crept with us in a petty pace from day to day; all of our yesterdays would've followed us to the last recorded syllable of recorded time, across worlds and people.

Just as we once were Romans, we were once the Japanese, and we would've done the exact damn same in the name of Pax Americana.

This world was a world of American Peace, if only because of our failures, our punishments. We had our silhouette of time, for all time, on the world. We mourned our dead alone.

Thankfully, the Japanese Diet did not know of how their own treated the Rose Order yet, and, perhaps for worse, we had assumed we never saw them dragged through the streets, naked, dishonored.

"Yes. The JSDF has acted… commendably."

* * *

 _The international community and the press will soon be able to make their way through the Gate, meanwhile, material regarding information on the world on the other side of the Gate is being prepared and organized from both JSDF accounts and American accounts; official and supplementary from soldier taken photos and records. No timetable is set._

 _The perpetrator of the Ginza Incident has been outright stated as being the Emperor of the Empire, and not the Empire itself or its people. These people will, in time, be fully considered Japanese civilians after the right processes have taken place._

 _Preparations are being made to bring him to justice diplomatically, without further violence, by establishing full diplomatic relations once several more JSDF installations and facility are put in place just in case of a full blown conflict. He will stand trial._

 _America's forces have been capped indefinitely, but the the JSDF's troop count is expected to rise and territory controlled allowed to expand._

 _Within reason, modern-era equipment deployment will continue to be limited or prohibited within the Special Region, however, eventually the JSDF plans to arm local, JSDF aligned militias and regular militaries: a force for the people, by the people, under the supervision of the JSDF._

 _On top of that, several of the higher ranked POWs will be leading these forces due to "good conduct and indoctrination to the Japanese objectives."_

 _We thank you, the refugees, for joining us here today and showing the world what kind of people live on the other side of the Gate, and we hope you will aid us in bringing a new age to your world of peace, prosperity, and democracy._

That was the gist of what the Japanese Diet had said to us invited, Itami and I not knowing exactly what the hell had just happened, what the hell we just gave them, and what the hell we were going toward.

"I messed up… _ **I messed up!"**_ Itami had held his head in his hands as he waited for us, forehead against Cold War era concrete.

"What do you mean father?" We didn't notice what Chuka had called Itami, and largely, we had ignored what Itami said. It would've driven us insane, and we could not afford it.

Harris, Doc, Loke, and I had changed into civilian clothes in a secret tunnel underneath the Diet leading to a subway as Itami corralled the dazed refugees. They needed him.

We made sure we were still concealed carrying by the time our jackets were put on, and as we moved down that concrete tunnel alone with instructions for our minds only, I had pulled out my phone and dialed a number as I passed Youji.

I pressed on his shoulder hard as I got him moving, staring into eyes that never were supposed to see what he had seen, a soul who had believed he had just sold a world, his entire world. He pressed his hand down back on mine desperately before we ran down, giving me a handhold on my phone as the other end picked up.

"Hey, Mom… How'd I look on TV?"


	12. 1-9: In Love - In the Military

A/N: One more chapter, then we have the Hakone hoedown. Anyway, review responses:

-WMDs

Ah yes, thought this would stir up some stuff. I'm not outright talking about what we see in our words, but what I'll make up in regards to the magic users and potions. I mean, when I played Skyrim I always used potions to great effect, and I partly drew Lelei's own concoction from that idea of "Hey, what if Lelei, as smart as she is, is able to make up some sort of chemical weapon on the spot inspired by the murmurings of the JSDF personnel and Marines?" Alchemy in modern warfare. Yeah, which is why I would presume certain people would proclaim them to be WMDs to a point, given the deployment, and yes, I will proceed assuming the Empire has done such research on this in the past, but has not put it in full fruition. They've never had the opportunity or the reasoning to go for it. Maybe after Pina's return they will.

Maybe.

Don't know what I'm gonna do with her, in all honesty. Depends on how her education goes next chapter. Tomita and Emerson will help her and Bozes at a library.

I always thought that the Empire needed something as a deterrent outright, something that would give the Marines some double edged reasoning to start being as aggressive as the Japanese in this land. Still developing that plot line though along with the slaves. Regarding the slaves, that'll be my plot point which says "These are not Americans of today. These are Americans which the world needed us to be." as Riptidez said in his own review of Pax Americana.

-Grittiness, lack of patriotism, patriotism

Reality Deviant, this one's for you.

Yeah. This story gets dark. The Iraq War was something like that you know. I mean, this story is a tragedy, not because of design, but because of the situation it is in: modern powers going into a foreign land, and wrecking mass destruction, regardless of the aim. The difference between offensive and defensive actions is very slim, and I'm not trying to justify anything here.

Granted I might get a bit preachy through Masterson and Emerson, but whenever they go off on a spiel I mean to directly talk to the author of Gate and those people who are of the like to deny history. The Nanking Massacre and Manchuria in particular. Takumi Yanai, as I hear, is something of a militant, get-the-US-off-Japan, repeal Article 9, type of guy. Not exactly someone I think with the right mindset to fully explore such a story, even if it is his own, for a Japanese invasion of a resource rich land with a, thematically speaking, backwards people.

Of course who am I to say as the son of war refugees. I probably am no more qualified to speak for this topic than him.

And regarding the note of American patriotism, there's a point which I want to keep pulling here: These Americans are not the Americans we have today. These people are not us. As demonstrated through Bannon and Masterson, and I really liked how GendouUrumaru said this, Hitman is part of the generation that America had sacrificed in the name of Middle Eastern stability.

They are Americans, they understand that, they have that in their blood, and they do proudly represent it. But it is up to them to decide what to feel about it, and they feel empty about it. This is an America that had expended every option and still had to deal with the worst one, reinvading the Middle East again to great consequence, and this time, they stayed. That's how I also explain the GATE plot point of "America being tied up in the Middle East". Farfetched as this is, this is my world, and I am happy with having that be the state of it.

How will that translate to the JSDF's involvement in the Gate and how the US Military stands by and watch after a time? Well, there wasa photoset on Tumblr a year or so ago, and it was this scene during Sherlock on BBC. I don't watch Sherlock, nor do I follow it, but it was a Gifset of a person being chased or hunted down by Sherlock and Watson, but suddenly that person explodes in the middle of the park because of explosives.

Sherlock, being the civilian man that he is, his face is one of shock and horror.

But John Watson only looked on grimly, expectantly. Why? Because, I quote a tumblr user's description of the scene: "The difference between Sherlock's face and John's face: this is not the first time John has seen this happen to a man."

In the BBC's current version of Sherlock, remember, John Watson is a veteran of ISAF's fight in Afghanistan.

I think, going forward, that will be how I will generally summarize the Marines versus the JSDF.

But enough lip out of me, this chapter will be the general transition from the darkness that this story is slowly enveloping itself into to a quick bob into the light and good times. I'll be sure to have some relief chapters going forward. Fluff between Bannon and Masterson, Emerson and his family, Emerson and Itami, Loke being a sweetheart with the refugees and Doc being a dork. Things like that.

Oh yeah, regarding the royals becoming a fan of Yaoi, I'll let it be, but only because I will highlight their interests in something else next chapter to make up. This is still a fanfiction of an anime, if I'm going to tolerate the gothic lolita and the anthro maids (Haven't forgot about them and Kurata!), I'll tolerate gay manga and the hot springs.

Thanks for the reviews, read and enjoy the slow descent into mental illness. (so sorry emerson bby)

* * *

 ** _Section 1-9_**

* * *

Before Itami had pushed open the service door that led to one of Tokyo's stations, I had finished up my conversation with Mom and Dad, my brother still on the line as my other hand was around the .45, dropping the mag as it was braced against my leg and using the texture of the jeans to rack the slide back before I holstered it back.

"Moving to Connecticut, eh?" I said to my brother, John. He had a tad bit more on me in terms of smarts… or maybe he just had his priorities straight enough that he had become a high school math teacher.

"Yeah, I know, finally moving out of the city like you always told us to. Just rub it in Kay."

"Connecticut is a fine state to move to, nothing wrong with it."

"Newtown has an open position I said I would fill, so we're moving to Newtown. Don't worry, got your stuff all packed and what not. We're gonna probably dump it into the basement or something. Won't touch it though. Promise." he said with his same, rather sultry voice. "Dad was laughing at Youji the entire time, you know. Is he okay?"

The man in question waited for me at the door as everyone else had already left this secret passage, left over from Cold War fears. I put my phone against my shoulder. "Hey, Youji. You alright?"

"I don't know."

I put my phone to my ear again. "He says he doesn't know."

"Well… damn shame then. Tell him he's part of our family now too, if he needs it."

"Yeah, well, maybe we'll visit for next Christmas, or something. I'll talk later, brother."

"Don't get yourself killed Kay."

"Tell that to the Romans."

And the call was ended as I approached awaiting Itami.

"John?" he asked knowingly. He had known his family and I had known his. We were friends like that now. I patted his shoulder once.

"Yeah. They're worried about you, you know." he smirked grimly as he looked out into the service tunnel.

Our usual outings before D-Day had usually been bar hopping, awkward anime watching, and general visits to his ex-wife's at night and general PT by day in preparation for the Gate crossing. It was a comfortable relationship we had built thus far, and, perhaps if we hadn't been forced together by fate, we would've been friends anyway. Maybe a little more I hoped, if a part of me was being honest.

"Are they?"

"Me too."

"…Thanks, Kay." he said quietly, finally getting me past the door. "I just don't know what I've done to these people."

Loke had grunted to get our attention, still adjusting her head scarf around her neck, keeping her hair free to flow. She wasn't a practicing Muslim, not a lot of the people in my chalk had been practicing any religion, but she still had kept her hijab with her, a token piece of herself reminding herself of her family.

"You're a good man, Lieutenant Itami, no one can blame you for what you said." she said as she had hid her gun. Doc had grunted to say the same, he having decided a suit was proper casual attire, his .45 going into his inner suit pocket.

"Well, how about myself?" he responded as the refugees reconvened with them. Rory, in her ever knowingness, had shook her head no. She looked at Doc who was about to say something, but she had stayed his words as he had been spooked for a second.

"Soldiers are not accountable for the actions of their government, Itami. They are not given choice whether or not to follow them. They must do." she said, yawning as she had tightened the bow on her halberd's axe, missing the feel of its craftsmanship on her fingers. "To speak for an entire people isn't possible, Itami, and for them to put you in that position, just speaks to how much they wanted a response like yours."

Lelei had spoken up. "People often look for the interpretation of the facts which they need, not the facts themselves." she looked at Chuka, as if expecting something of her, or, perhaps, using her as an example, but she said nothing as she sweetly looked at Itami with big, expecting eyes.

Doc had finally gotten some words out as we had slowly made our way to the sound of the Tokyo metro: "You seem well, Lelei, for what you just told the Japanese… you mind elaborating on what extent the Empire has on hand with the whole chemical weapons thing?"

"Not here, Doctor."

I nodded at Doc as Harris's camel jacket fell over his large form finally. "Time and place, Doc, time and place."

I chose the people I did because of several things that went off like a checklist: first aid, gentleness, not so gentle. Doc, Loke, and Harris had filled them out well enough, that and the refugees knew them better.

Loke was always a fan favorite for the child refugees given her personality, her eagerness to play with them, Doc was just doing his job with Kurokawa and tended to the refugees more often than not seeing as the lack of casualties made his role rather dull over there. Harris… well, the football player had been teaching the refugees the wonderful sport of handegg.

Didn't lie when I said I tried to get to know all of my men before Ginza had happened, just to prove that I wasn't just every other straight outta Academy officer.

I was successful enough at that that they did salute me, despite my age, my junior position to other officers.

 _"Your soldiers respect you, Kay." Itami told me once._

 _"I'm a lucky man." I responded._

We pushed through the maintenance door to an empty platform in a usually busy Tokyo. Just to plan.

Mitch and the Japanese spook had told us what we were gonna do: bus was gonna head back to the Gate for whatever hounds that was to follow it, throwing 'em off our scent while we remained in Japan for a few days. Officially, it was to iron a few issues out, to give the royals a few more words of advice, official stuff that really could've been solved in one phone call. Unofficially this was our leave time after a whopping two weeks of deployment.

It really was unfair in the historical terms of soldiers like us.

"Are we…." Lelei said as we all lined up on the train platform, looking up. "underground?"

"Yep." Harris had answered as we paitently waited for the train.

Chuka had latched onto me upon hearing that, Rory grabbing onto Itami as Lelei held her staff a bit tighter. Her halberd had fallen and Harris had gone to try and catch.

"No wai-!"

Harris had felt his arm tug as he felt it drag his hand down, suddenly realizing the unseen weight. His yelp had called Loke and Doc to action as they each went for different parts of the handle.

"Ho-lee shit!" Harris had yelled as the halberd brought the three of them down to the ground, but not without a fight, a back breaking incident stopped by the combined strength of three special forces soldiers bringing the ancient weapon of such holy design to the metro floor with little more than a pat.

We all had looked at Rory as she retrieved her halberd with literally just her finger, Harris panting with the sudden death scenario he had just faced: almost broken by a weapon.

"Why the hell do you need Itami here for? You got one hell of some training regiment Miss Mercury." Harris had said as he had recovered.

She had shook like a scared dog with the grim look on her face. _"I need him."_

Doc had constantly been shaking his head in denial. To be fair, we all were, mentally. He was a man who had been over the precipice of insanity again and again, but he knew the feeling and went with it as best he could.

Loke had put a hand on Lelei in the settling commotion, their fear of underground apparently retaking hold as I simply stood still with the mentally traumatized elf on my side. "Are you okay?" she asked.

Lelei said nothing as the ground rumbled. To me as a New Yorker, it was a natural feeling that was just as common to me as the wind blowing on my skin, but as a great light had shone in the dark of the train tunnel, all the refugees had broken out screaming.

* * *

"You see I always used to ride the MTA for free." Emerson had bragged as they had settled the girls down and carried them into the silver metal beast that was the Tokyo metro to the view of several confused onlookers, apparently unaware of who these people were.

"Oh yeah?" Itami had asked.

"I had a friend who worked in the subways, always let me slide in."

"That's soooo civil of you, sir." Loke had said as she had made a point for the passengers to move out of the car, she and Harris showing their pieces. The only ones that came to the car would've been the other guests of honor.

"Christ…" Itami had said as Rory held onto him tighter, the rumbling of the train ever constant. "I look like some shady producer or something."

Harris grinned. Man was a fan of Idolmasters. "Not producer. _**Broducer**_."

Itami glanced over to the big man and then to Emerson expectantly. "Seriously Kay? Almost everyone in Hitman loves anime but you."

"Look, I admit, I like Space Adventure Cobra and Area 88, but anime as a whole… eh. I mean, your ex-wife's manga are-"

" _ **Ex-wife?!**_ " Shino's voice had resounded as the doors from another car had opened and closed, the sergeants walking in with their VIPs, Pina holding onto Bannon and Bozes onto Tomita to his reddened face's detriment.

"Later, sergeant." Emerson said, Itami walking over despite his anchor.

"Good work, Tomita, Kuribayashi." he commented simply, most of them tied down by one person or another.

He had been out of breath. "I was panicking, sir. No one told me that the bus was a decoy."

Itami smiled in return. "Well, we're all here, so it's okay, right?"

His two sergeants nodded. Shino had motioned her head over the constant phenomenon of petrified otherworlders. The two Americans had been silent, seeing Cam in his casuals having caused Emerson to glower. Last time they were in their casuals at Ginza was when this whole farce started. Still, the two didn't look bad in field and town jackets he admitted. They had been from the west of course, compared to Emerson's business casual that had made him and Chuka look like job hunters.

"Ah yes," Emerson had said. "They think we're dragging them into the very depths of Hell."

The Japanese lieutenant had gripped a pole with his one free arm, gazing out at more concrete going by. "Can't blame them. I doubt they have a subway where they come from."

The car had shaken violently, and the otherworlders had all involuntarily shrieked, even the usually level Lelei, having gotten too close to a door in her observations to fully come to terms with her situation.

Bozes had gripped onto her man, Tomita, harder. The two lieutenants had both winked at the man as the two had embarrassingly backed off from each other, however the same was for Rory and Chuka.

"Hardy?!" Rory had yelped with her eyes closed.

Bannon had elbowed Masterson's smirk out of existence.

"What?"

"Hardy controls what's underground!"

Itami had looked between everyone for an explanation, his eyes furrowed in some form of "what the shit."

Loke had always been fast to catch on, enough that she had been Lelei's second favorite person to talk to in casual moments. "Another god, like Emroy, I think."

Rory had whined in affirmative. "She's bad news! Two hundred years ago she told me to marry her! And she just wouldn't shut up about it! She might drag me off to be he-"

Itami had only simply patted her back. "Don't worry, I doubt Hardy is in control here."

"Still!" she clutched onto Itami harder. "She hates men! So please! Stay close and she might stay away!"

The traditions of other people had been fully appreciated by all the soldiers there, even Rory's praying for blood and war, but perhaps, only because they had been a knowing, tolerant group of individuals. Hopefully, in their minds, the JSDF back in Arnus would tolerate such ways the same. Another lesson from an American past.

Itami had his own tradition though with a sly smirk. "Only if you say this: " _D-don't get the wrong idea! It's just to keep him away! It's just camouflage!""_

And so she repeated it to a T.

Emerson had cracked a smile at that too.

"…Urgh, creepy." Shino had turned away with Bannon.

"Tell me about it…"

The next station had rung over the PA system, but before the train had slowed down to stop, Emerson had addressed the young woman on his arm.

"You scared of Hardy too?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, but instead of talking to Emerson she had shifted to talk to Itami. "Being underground…"

They all remembered where they had first found her: a few dozen feet down a dark, cold well. Of course that might've done something to her mind. "Don't you worry. We ain't failed you yet." as Emerson had told himself more than the elf.

The doors slid open, and again it was an empty platform save for one man: Komakado

"Hey." And he stepped in.

"Where's Mitch?" Bannon asked.

"Having a field day uptop, some car smashed into the bus to stop it and forgot there were the a dozen Army Rangers on it.

"My boys do okay?" Emerson asked.

"Beat the shit out of some religious extremists hoping to offer themselves to Rory, but they should be fine."

"No discharges?"

"Just some good ole' fisticuffs… that being said, we're speeding up the schedule and will head straight to Hakone if we can help it. We've got a few organizations which want to… take advantage of the fact we have a God, a magic user, and an elf here."

"What? No Russian Spetz, Chinese SOF or anything?" Masterson asked incredulously.

"Are you Americans so war starved you want World War Three to start because of this thing?" Komakado responded to Masterson with a bit of bite to it.

"Just saying spook," he held up both his hands in some mocking defensive gesture. "Don't tell me the East doesn't want at least a little piece of the pie."

Emerson shook his head. "Only a desperate nationalistic fool would try to use their nation's special forces for something as crazy as some sort of hostage taking plot: as if they believe their people alone are higher than those around him and absolutely nothing can touch them… That is the protection of fervent nationalism. A shield and a blindfold all put into one."

Itami had given an odd look at Emerson.

"What?"

"At Syracuse they taught this class that dealt with American influence abroad and how Americans abroad were treated… Is all."

Komakado tapped his foot on the tram as Emerson's sudden burst of meta-analysis went through.

"Anyway, long story short we got a lot of bad organizations out there and if you want to stay in Japan for some leave time, you gotta be vigilant."

Didn't exactly quell Rory's own misgivings out of being underground, which she had been brought to the brink of panic for, writhing on Itami's arm as the name of that damned Tokyo district was sounded over the intercom.

Emerson had looked at his two sergeants and they had nodded to follow, they making subtle hand movements to their soldiers to fall in line. Itami had done the same as a crowded station was met.

"Ginza."

The group had pushed through before the incoming crowd had come in, Komakado swept up purposefully.

"Apologies. We're getting off here, sir."

"Wai- Wait! We have a plan to follow!"

* * *

The cold Tokyo night was rather refreshing as we all had stepped out of the musky metro, Tokyo very much dressed up for Christmas.

Rory had been dancing in the relatively fresh air and the nip of the cold.

It brought smiles around, granted if we only took her at face value.

Komakado had finally made his way up beside us as we yawned and took in fresh breaths, I personally waiting on Itami's next move. All things considered, we were tired, and if this was jet lag, it was hitting us hard.

Pina had ben marveling at the night lights that had lit the Tokyo skyline, she and her lieutenant absolutely astounded by the fact nightlife was a thing.

Itami had pointed up at the lights. "A little thing called electricity. Turns night into day and gives people a few extra hours to live their life. Quite handy, in the long span of things."

"Like stars…" she had said under her breath. To think we had harnessed the energy of the stars above for such menial use. It had astounded her still. This wasn't fire, but something more. "What kind of people are you that can harness this kind of power?"

I remembered Kurokawa's words. "Not too different than you and yours, princess. Just time was your enemy."

"History is some sort of repetition, I believe." Itami said in response to me. "I'm sure, if we never showed up, your Empire would've seen something like this in its future, no matter how far away from that future would've been."

"Rather cheap phrase, in my opinion: history repeats." Masterson had said as he played with his visible breath, Lelei using her hands to form some sort of mist sphere in her hands to no one's concern. She had enough of those "Alchemical" elements irradiated within her to use her power's still. In fact, she had demonstrated something of a trick during the hearing, and that had included simply levitating a few papers and pens off desks.

"Oh?" Itami had commented.

I agreed, actually. "Yeah… saying history repeats is like saying that they'll be humans… probably, in the next fifty years. Thing like "War never changes" and "World War Four will be fought with sticks and stones" are really just cop outs and broad underestimations by people who don't want to really analyze human relations nowadays. Almost like stating the obvious and what not and neglecting the larger details."

"Well, Lieutenant Emerson, don't exactly remember the last time a Gate opened to our knowledge." Komakado had said a bit sarcastically. Moreso than I needed him to be.

"Same shit, different day… now we head over to the next station?" I said sheepishly. First world nation invading a people, for all intents and purposes, a century behind technologically, infrastructurally, and of the like.

"Yeah-" Komakado had been cut off from explaining as we heard Rory screech and the clatter of cloth softened metal on the sidewalk and painful groaning.

Bannon had half way drew her handgun as we all saw the thug who had tried to take off with what had been under wraps. The commotion had given us enough space to all surround the punk, I having pulled back the man's hoodie after I shoved the halberd off of him.

Doc had knelt down and checked the man's shoulders and legs. The thug had been crying, and the straightening of bones that Doc had done abruptly had made him go unconscious after a scream. "Big baby."

"What?" Komakado had seemed unbelieving of the halberd's weight as he leaned down to pick it up. "You trip or some- _**Hoh shit**_!"

* * *

"Yeah. Just because this city is so big things like this happen all the time, so we have those type of services in place: hospital on wheels, certain peacekeeping authorities."

"An independent peace keeping force?"

"Law and order, particularly. Police is what I call them in my language." Bannon had explained to Pina and Lelei as we saw the opportunistic thug and Komakado carried off in the same ambulance a scene made in the middle of Ginza again by our hand.

Itami had backed off from the ambulance as the Japanese spook had tried to tell him instructions, I simply hanging out on the sidewalk with the rest of my Rangers as the Japanese saw their spook off.

"But isn't it the responsibility of the people to apprehend such criminals?"

Bannon had twirled a finger around some her longer strands of hair as they sat on the curb.

"Yes, but these police organizations are more specifically made to deal with it. Frees up the time of everyone else in this- well, in our day and age." Bannon had held her head back as she looked up into the light polluted night sky. "Forgive my condescending attitude, if I come off like that, but tell me, this Imperial Capital I hear all about, the common part of it, is it at all, in any recognition, like this?"

Pina had looked down to the ground sadly. She wouldn't know, as sheltered as she was.

It was naturally assumed there was an Imperial Capital. Not that any of the Special Task Force had laid eyes on it, but given the general chatter between refugees who had seen it in their life time and of the people who had went off that way during the evacuations, it was fairly close to Arnus. Perhaps no more the distance from say, Kuwait to Baghdad.

Bozes had been the quiet support of Pina this entire time, more Imperial than her, as Masterson had quietly reported. The Princess herself had been losing hope in just about every ambition she had as she had seen more and more modern marvels that we considered everyday things, and, I couldn't blame her, what was so great and godly to her was nothing more than a trip to a hardware store for us.

An Imperial Princess in the Emperor's House.

Well, shit, we were all Connecticut Yankees in King Arthur's Court at that point.

"Is this the common part of Japan?" Bozes had asked, dreading the answer.

"Tokyo." I said. "This city is called Tokyo… and… well, I don't know. Is it?" I asked Itami as he walked over with his brown coat, hands in pocket.

"Touristy. Don't be too impressed Princess, this place is mostly all for show and what not."

She cringed. "It might be a bit late for first impressions… does everyone here have access to this part of the city?"

Itami had shrugged again. "More or less."

Bannon had spoken up. "Every single citizen, regardless of anything: money, gender, age, criminal status even, are obligated to all these places and services as long as they fall within the purview of societal rules."

Masterson yawned. "Politicians bumping shoulders with fishermen, police with pocket thieves, and Americans with Japanese. Such a great system in my personal opinion, minus those who try to steal." He pointed at the halberd under wraps, barely flinching as Rory had smiled sweetly, fanned it in a swirl, and tapped the top of his head playfully. "Hey, EllTee, iPhone."

I knew the drill as I tossed my phone to Masterson, he preemptively getting an arm around everyone on the curb and squeezing us all into frame.

I flashed a peace sign as Itami had jokefully used my bald head as an arm rest.

Princess, not exactly understanding they were taking a selfie, had panicked as they saw their reflections in the screen of my phone, and before they could say something about their souls being snatched, Masterson had hit the button and the phone flashed for a photo of all my Rangers, the refugees, and the JSDF.

"Send it to me later, right?"

"Right." I said as I saw the photo in the gallery.

"Hey," Itami had pointed to it, getting the two Imperials to look at it. "Check that out."

It wasn't exactly the royals' most flattering picture, but it was their first photo, and they were in awe as they saw an exact replication of the posture they all held just seconds before, they being squished to center.

"Oh, what wonderful a thing, perhaps I can have a copy later?" Rory had said with a sultry voice, peering over my shoulder.

Itami had only patted her head as he looked down a street. "Later."

I shook my head. "You know, your highness, me and Youji here can start teaching you guys some of this stuff later, if you want. You guys don't look too happy."

She looked up at me as I stood up to stand besides my counterpart.

Itami nodded. "As Emerson told you earlier, we are a fair people enough that we cannot let you proceed into whatever negotiations that will be in the future without prior knowledge of what kind of people we are. We have enough to lose sleep over, you know."

She stood up, defiant. "Then you must understand it is not your history I am interested in, but rather the knowledge of…" she raised her hands up. "This."

"If your aim is to make a better empire off of what you see here, I do say you're being hasty, princess… one step at a time, alright?"

"Forgetting where you came from is a tragic ordeal, princess." Masterson had said as he had flipped through some doujinshi catalogues on his phone. "Personally I used to be a janitor and a rancher, so I recognize bullshit from a mile away. Speaking of which, Itami."

Masterson had cut that discussion off with a bit of agitation. He was an okay drunk, but a bad man when tired.

"I know this is an awfully important trade of words here, but I'm tired as hell, and I don't want to stick out like a sore thumb, with what the loli demigod, the blue haired mage, and the elf hanging around the black man and his group of a Paki, an Aryan cowboy, a one eyed dame, Lex Luthor, and a QB."

"Shut up Cam, and yeah, I know, we're all tired…" Itami had said. "Komakado said we were supposed to head off to some hotel, but that place was just issued a bomb threat… If you guys trust me, I got somewhere else to go, just need to pick up some food and head to the bank real quick."

"Long as it's a place to rest for the night." Bannon had yawned herself, leaning against Masterson for a second, then taking Shino by her arm. "Come on hun, I think Itami has a good idea brewing."

"If that's what you say…"

"Well," Masterson had started, offering his arm to Chuka. "If we're out on the town for the meanwhile, we might as well be out on the town."

She had taken the rather strong man's arms with a tad bit of hesitation, glancing over Itami, as if for his approval. He had none to give as Rory had imitated and looped around his arm.

Reluctantly she had intertwined arms with Masterson, as cool a cat as he was, taking it in stride as we all found someone to lock arms with. Buddy system, I thought of it, even as Masterson had grabbed my arm too.

Harris, in perhaps, some show of his strength, had hauled Loke and Doc onto his shoulders as we followed Itami to parts unknown.

Bozes had found Tomita, however her princess had found no one, left alone and staring at the bright Tokyo lights, almost left behind.

* * *

I knew exactly where we were going as the Ginza lights had dimmed behind us and we went to that "common" place that the princess had asked about. Apartments for the actual inhabitants of Tokyo that didn't exactly enjoy the highlife of an international destination that Tokyo was. A much quieter, more homely section that a certain woman I had gotten to know in the last few months, courtesy of her ex-husband.

These streets had given us privacy and acoustics good enough for Masterson to play music from his belt clipped phone and the pill-like speaker he had somehow hidden. Man was always one for music from the 2010s and the early 2000s.

Not sure if Risa's neighbors would've appreciated this in the dead of night, but Masterson had hardly given a damn as he had taught Chuka how to bust a move in the middle of the street.

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **The Killers – When You Were Young**_

* * *

 _ **They say the devil's water - it ain't so sweet**_

 _ **You don't have to drink right now**_

 _ **But you can dip your feet**_

 _ **Every once in a little while….**_

Bannon had been twirling from my grips right into Masterson, back to back as he had also spun the elf around like a ballet dancer. With that, Masterson had let her spin as he turned around and got his arms around Bannon, their bodies flowing with the tune of a band a long time gone with an intimacy that wasn't present with any other of my Rangers as they danced their way up the street.

It hadn't been the first time Chuka had danced, and nay not the first time any of them had, even the royals, but it was the first time they had heard this type of active music with so much going on.

Even Tomita in his form had taken hand in hand with Bozes as Harris put an example of how a big guy was supposed to dance: with no care at all as he put his arms to the sky and danced along with his legs like a horse.

As uncomfortable as the princess was, she knew how to imitate enough that she had swayed her hips awkwardly as her fists moved up and down like she was shaking maracas, despite the reluctance in her movements, there was something of a smile and delight on her face as the notes hit her head like an euphoria.

Chuka had backed into Itami, urging him on.

"Come on father! Let's dance!"

"No thanks, I got food to carry."

It was by the grace of the music Itami hadn't heard what I did as Chuka returned to the middle of the street as she had, by her natural abilities of perception, synchronized the swing of Loke's claps and swings to make it look like she knew what she was doing.

Lelei had only taken to riding Itami's back, his face telling me he didn't heard Chuka call him father.

I ignored it too, for better or worse as Bannon and Masterson took my hand and Shino's and brought us into some energetic waltz.

This wasn't a club song. God no. Before we were Hitman Squad, we had been Bravo Company, and Bravo Company had done its number to the Tokyo night club scene. That stayed with us today. Even me.

 _ **You sit there in your heartache**_

 _ **Waiting on some beautiful boy to**_

 _ **To save you from your old ways**_

 _ **You play forgiveness**_

 _ **Watch it now, here he comes**_

It gave us pause, smiling, and it was a delight to see Itami grin at us having fun as absurdly as we could without alcohol.

It was a delight in general to see my people laughing, free from the worries of a war somewhere else.

It gave me further delight to see another figure join us that night in pink sweats and run toward Itami.

 _ **He doesn't look a thing like Jesus**_

 _ **But he talks like a gentlemen**_

 _ **Like you imagined when you were young**_

 _ **When you were young**_

"Risa-chan!" I had yelled over the music and waved, the woman in question giving something of a needy bear hug to Itami as he had dropped the food as best he could and embraced his ex-wife back, Lelei crawling off and being swept up by Masterson to her surprise.

"God dammit Youji! You're waking up all the neighbors!" she said, snuggling into the comparatively warm shoulder of Itami. "I heard you guys from down the street."

"You're cold, Risa. Heating bill finally got to you?" Itamu murmured, lower half of his face in Risa's short hair.

"Mmm."

The song had toned down enough and Masterson had finally let out one triumphant yell into the sky to signify he had done a dance for his own sake, and he thought he had done it well. Asides from that, our gazes had all been affixed on the couple that wasn't at present.

Seeing was believing, and Shino's smile had disappeared as she, and perhaps all of us minus me, had known Itami had an ex-wife.

"Hey, who's….?" Doc had said as he panted.

"Ex-wife." I answered.

" _ **What?!"**_

Masterson had extended a post-dance high five and I had returned it, but it had snapped the reverie Itami and Risa were in in the middle of the street.

"Soooo I'm not the only one?" Bannon had said curiously, a circle forming around the two, even as they held each other.

"Eh, maybe, Sergeant Bannon." Itami relented, having recently known of the soured relationship with her own ex.

Shino had held her face in her palms. "To think! There would be someone to marry the first lieutenant!"

Bannon had poked her cheek again. "Hun, remember, I was married too."

"Yeah, but you're all sweet and stuff as a person!"

"Lisa also doesn't talk shit in front of the person in question, sergeant." Masterson had said as he closed the circle around them, Lelei riding his shoulders.

Itami had given off a rather passive look before he himself had picked up his smaller ex-wife.

"…Much more people than it sounded like, you know…" Risa had given a wide glance at the circle: Thirteen in total, minus Itami, but with that glance she had seen what many people hadn't realized in the night of Tokyo's streetlife: the three refugees.

She had squealed like a fangirl.

" _Oh my god! They're all so cuuuuttteee."_ She had tried to spring from Itami's grasp, but to no avail as the refugees looked on in confusion.

To be fair, I knew the feeling, she had said the same to me when I first visited.

She had taken me and Masterson's shipping and ran with it to the tune of two comics of the sort which I had neglected to tell Masterson about. Didn't really help that he found out about them on his own…

Short reunion asides, it was my turn.

"Evening, Risa-chan." I had stepped into the circle, some of my squad surprised.

"Hey, Kay."

"I thought Youji's last alimony payment would've lasted you until next year."

She had adjusted her glasses tiredly. "Well, you know. Things and stuff come up."

Itami looked at her by holding her out a bit, she having been sitting on the bar his arms made. "Things and stuff?"

"Things and stuff." she reaffirmed.

Tomita raised an eyebrow at them. "We're staying with her tonight?" he surmised.

She had looked over at him. "Friend of Youji's is usually a friend of mine. Right Kay?"

I shrugged. "Usually."

She stuck her tongue out at me.

* * *

 _ **Tokyo - Risa's Apartment**_

* * *

Doc had been the one that recommended this to Emerson and Itami: one of his spare medical notebooks brought over to the princess and presented before they had entered Risa's humble abode.

" _When I was in my pre-med phase in college, notes saved my ass."_ he explained to the royalty, a rather elegant ballpoint pen which he had bought during the street romp quickly brought to her. It was a true to honest gift. _"From me to you, your highness. This might save you one day too."_

Doc had been a friendly, bald face, but his words were kind and true and Pina, in all of the doubts that she had today, had disregarded it for a second as she took the paper and pen.

" _I think you're gonna learn a lot in the next few days, and I think I speak for all of us that it will be overwhelming to you and Miss Bozes, here. Keep all that you learn here.."_

"… _thank you, Doctor."_

" _De rien, your highness."_

She had looked at Doc, letting everyone else go in first, keeping him back.

"Why do you not have any hair, Doctor?"

He blew out some air as he patted down his scalp, running fingers over where eyebrows once were.

"Lost it." he said simply.

"In battle?"

"Suppose… in the ever present conflict against cancer."

"Cancer? Another nation in this world?" she asked, the first note in her new book being of what kind of enemies Doc had fought before they came. He had shook his head amused.

"Nah. A sickness… you see, not all wars are fought against people. Some wars you have to wage against ideas, concepts, nouns, viruses, things like that. I found my own personal war against an illness."

"Did you win?"

He stroked his own face reminiscently. "Ah. Cancer always wins in the end, but I'll take my victories as they come."

"Is there any way I can help, Doctor?" she asked, legitimately concerned. Doc's rather bony face smirked.

"Afraid not… at least, not now. But still, good, thanks. Find something other to go to war with other than us and the JSDF."

"I don't intend to go to war with you at all."

"And that's the first step of being a good soldier, your highness, fight for peace, no war at all. Things like that."

She had written down in her notes as the group had largely went in without them, Bozes still attached to Tomita.

They leaned on the railing of the steps in the Tokyo night.

"I don't suppose that meeting they took you to earlier turned out in your favor?"

She had breathed out tiredly as she slumped onto the concrete steps, despite her fine linens getting at risk of being scratched up by the rough material.

"It was… more being told what to do rather than any negotiations…" she dragged on as Doc had sat next to her. "Never been talked to before like that in my life."

Doc had nodded thoughtfully as he idly scrolled through his own smartphone for the time and weather for the next few days. "Yeah," he agreed. "Politicians will do that to you… but I'm sure that was just some preliminary talks before the real deal."

There was another notebook she had, one given to her during that meeting that she had rested Doc's medical notebook on: the prisoner list, Doc had seen.

"Some of those prisoners," Doc had pointed a finger at the leather book. "Some of them don't want to go back, you know."

It was a phenomenon that was observed during World War Two by Doc's homeland. During World War Two, German prisoners from both Britain and America were sent to Canada's prison camps, which, all things considered, didn't seem like prisons and simply just camps. As conditions in Germany deteriorated, German prisoners had been astounded by the amount of comfort and freedom given to them as POWs in Canada, by the Canadian people.

Needless to say, some didn't want to go back to their destroyed fatherland.

Doc would know. His grandfather was one of those many German soldiers.

"I fear, it might be for the best, that all of them stay." she said sadly.

"Why?" Doc's concern was palpable.

"To lose faith in the Empire, will destroy it from the inside out. Your military prowess, moral and ethical guidelines, your quality of life. I do admit, I am envious, even as daughter of the emperor. However, to think of all the soldiers, the men we sent over who live no better lives than peasants…"

The two looked up at the stars that were not there, which had led Pina to believe they literally had stolen them from the sky to harness them on the ground, but that wasn't so of course.

"Envy… nice choice of words, your highness."

"Huh?"

"Oh, it's not jealousy. Jealousy implies you're supposed to have it. But envy, envy is just right a word…"

"Thank you, Doctor."

Doc sucked and dried his mouth as he contemplated what to say next. With little further thought, he said what he meant. "Your empire has every right to exist, more or less, regardless of its history. The history you can deal with as time goes on, but if we were to go in there and say "No. You should do this and that because it's how we do it." then you know we're nothing more than civilized barbarians. However, if our politicians do it right, if we help, if we are there, but not menacingly overwatching, and let you go on your own path as you gain more and more knowledge from us… Yeah. I think we can have a comfortable existence together."

"You make this sound so uncomplicated, Doctor."

"Well, that's how you win wars. Divide, simplify, get to the root, and instead of crush it, you make friends and peace with it. You get rid of your enemies if you befriend them."

Pina had turned her head away, ashamed. "… or enslave."

Doc hadn't heard it.

With that, Pina had opened the notebook of prisoners and, very gradually, she had found that husband of one of Bozes' friends.

She reached a hand out to Doc, a maneuver she had seen done with her but never knowing what to do until a few hours ago, as Tomita had explained.

"Thank you, Doctor." Doc had returned the handshake fruitfully.

"Of course, your highness."

On the inside, it was a house Emerson had entered time and time again recently, and he, upon realization they would be sleeping here, worried about the space to fit a dozen plus people.

Risa was a generally small woman enough to not complain with her modest home though, her brown hair dirty and unkept, Bannon even giving her a run for her money. Itami had wiped her glasses with his shirt as she finally had delved into the food he had gotten for her, his phone buzzing all the way begging for sustenance.

After Itami had introduced everyone, there was barely any sitting room as he had seen Doc and the Princess missing outside.

Itami had otherwise been occupied of trying to get his ex-wife off of Rory.

"Uwaaa-! Such insolence!"

Rory hadn't seemed too happy about Risa in general, but she couldn't do much against the cheek pinching.

It was in this that Masterson had looked over to Risa's running computers and past the art program she had been drawing a doujin up on.

"Hey, Kay."

"What Cam?"

"Did you know that like, half the people in this room have tags on a certain type of image sharing site?"

"Does it end with booru something?"

"Yep, you know of it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

The marvels of the connected world and gifted NSFW image sites that naturally led to 34th rule of the internet.

"How the fuck does Rory have 961 images and I only have forty?" Cam had whined as he had taken off his jacket and laid down in Bannon's lap like a child.

Loke took a look herself before Risa defensively took back her computer. "Wow, EllTee, you got like, twenty images on this site."

Risa had flubbered her lips as she exited out of the site that she forgot to close down before she went out on. "The Japanese aren't a particularly fond people of people like Kay."

Harris had shook his head. "Now that's racist."

"Eh." Emerson had took the blow lightly as he took off his own jacket and settled in on his usual spot on the carpet.

"Sorry about this Risa, but you know, things and stuff come up." she stuck her tongue out at Emerson playfully again as Rory, after having straightened out her black dress, looked up and saw those porcelain dolls that kept the American visitor awake for some few weeks before Emerson got used to them.

Generally, in Rory's mind, they looked like the fellow apostles. Hardy in particular.

Fancifully Emerson had taken out his piece on the table after pointing it at the dolls, calming Rory down enough.

Risa had looked warily at the guns as the holsters were revealed all around, people having slipped out of their clothes and into their skinnies.

"Yeah," Itami had put his hands on the back of his head as Doc and Pina rejoined them. "Guess I have some things to explain…"

* * *

It wasn't usually how these visits went, but a good portion of us, Harris, Doc, and Loke withstanding seeing as they already turned in for the night in the kitchen, were up against Risa's great book case of books and, more often than not, R-18 doujinshi.

Either way it was a treasure trove for Lelei as she thumbed through the books with actual substance, Pina and Bozes more concerned as to why all these books had been bound so thinly after the initial captivation with their content.

"This your type of shit Kay?" Cam had ribbed me as we all had read up and down the aisle.

"Only, like, thirty percent my shit." I responded.

Risa's doujins were usually marketed to females, which up and down the line, even Bannon included, had been interested in in the dead of night. Didn't mean me and Masterson couldn't take a look for curiosity.

"Should a princess be reading this…?" Chuka had said as she flipped through her volume of a schoolboy and his teacher doing the do in an empty classroom.

Bozes and Pina had no response as they were fully captivated.

"Uhm- as deceitful as- Well. In the Empire such romances are actually quite common. I don't know about this world but…" the blush on Bozes' face was noted as we all had let the women have their piece and peace in ink and word.

Bannon had been flipping through Risa's own works. "Itami, why the hell are you credited for the story writing in half of them?"

He scrunched up his nose as he had been distracted, otherwise explaining the events in the last two weeks to his ex-wife.

"Ah, well, kinda just happens."

"…'s pretty good." Bannon had said.

"I bet I could give you some ideas Risa, with the whole "cowboy" thing I used to go on."

She had looked at Masterson. "Really?!" she said excitedly.

Itami had backed his excitable ex-wife down again before she spilled her food.

"Later. Maybe. Masterson has a lot of ideas and most of them are crap." he said.

"Manure is an essential piece of agriculture, you know." Bannon had shook her head with Masterson's reprisal, putting her books back and dragging the man to the bathroom to call it a day. Door open of course. Not before Masterson had handed Tomita his gun though. He was keeping watch tonight.

"Mmm…" Risa grumbled as I started putting the books back in, sleeping bags all arranged and ready. "Why would you get me involved in something so dangerous Youji?"

Tomita had stopped looking out the blinds for a second to reaffirm Itami's ex-wife's point.

"She has a point, lieutenant. Even if she is your ex-wife, getting a civilian involved is… risky. And should we really have ditched Komakado back there?"

Itami didn't seem to phased at the points. "For one, half of the people here are already civilians, refugees included and the royals. For two… well, didn't exactly trust Komakado or Mitch."

"Huh?"

"If the Yakuza are still as active as ever, they have their links in our government services and what not, and tracking an agent like Komakado would be easy. He would be their only real link to us then. Better to go off solo, in my opinion."

Tomita had looked at the .45 in his hand, ejecting a round in the chamber before catching it and dropping the steel magazine. "Well, long as six of us are armed, should be alright. Special Forces, no less."

He had put the magazine back in and slid in the round back into the chamber, Mexican carrying it as he store right out into the hazy dark.

"We're only Rangers, Tomita." I said, finding my sitting spot to nod off on, just below the window at Tomita's feet. "You want real special forces, go with the Deltas or the Green Berets. Hell, the Green Berets are better suited to what we're doing over there than us I think."

Itami had rolled into his bedding as well. "Aw come on, Kay, you're as spec ops as me."

Man had a point. "Yeah, be it as it may, that we're the cutting edge of traditional current army tactics, the Green Berets are supposed to be above that in terms of ROE. You know, go out on their own, find actionable intel, blend into the populace, all that good stuff."

"Is that jealousy I hear Kay?"

"I'm man enough to know when we're occupying the wrong role… We're light infantry, not black ops hardmen meant for unconventional warfare."

"Still special forces."

"Yeah, well, you know how we ended up where we were. Right men in the wrong place and the wrong time."

"Or is it right time?"

"Fucked if I know." I turned my head over onto my own shoulder as I tried for the first time that day to doze off, but Shino was brought into my sight, still as Shino as ever, despite everything. "Hey, Sergeant Kuribayashi."

She looked from her book in a flinch. "Yes sir?"

"I'm sorry for what my men said to you earlier, but there was a point they were trying to make."

"What, sir?"

"Don't get overeager. Don't go stir crazy. You'll lose your damned head in more ways than one. It's good you want to be Special Forces one day, and god damn we know you can do it, but it's a matter of whether or not the world needs you as a Special Forces soldier."

"How… do you mean?"

I grumbled frustrated. "Kill for circumstance. Not for yourself. You don't need to prove squat to anyone too. _**You're here to do a job**_ , not to make a name for yourself. If it happens, it happens anyway. I don't need any sadistic bullshit happening while we're on the clock, you want that type of work, go be a mercenary."

She furrowed her eyebrows at me, for just a second, before sighing herself and rubbing her neck. "Five by five, sir."

Itami had simply let that conversation be as he wrapped himself under his bag. "Tomita, wake me up at oh four hundred if you could. We're gonna have a fun day tomorrow and I don't want to miss it."

"Aye sir." and with that Itami fell immediately asleep as I wrapped my arms in front of me and concentrated on my breathing.

Lights were dimmed all around, but at the princess's request we had kept it light enough for her to start writing in that journal of hers. An hour went by, maybe, before Tomita from his vigilance above the occasional snoring around had piped up quietly to Risa, still finishing up a few pages for a deadline tomorrow as a manga illustrator.

"Miss Risa, are you close to Lieutenant Itami?"

She had sipped back some coffee in a mug.

"Well, I was his wife once… Now I'm… well, I don't know. Kay, what do you think?"

She had made me open my restless eyes groggily.

"You both still love each other, take that as you will." I relented as I relaxed my form. Jeans weren't exactly fun to sleep in.

"Can you go back to having a good relationship after a divorce…?" Tomita asked.

"They're better off now, I think." I answered.

Risa had silently groaned. "I was never really good at being a wife."

"Remember Risa-Chan, second time's a charm." I gave her a thumbs up before I had used one of her Mei Com pillows to prop my back up.

"Maybe, Kay, maybe…"

Tomita looked back out to the silent street. "I suppose that's just how it is: being in love and in the military."

* * *

Bathroom was the only space left for Bannon and Masterson to sleep in Risa's modest abode, but they didn't exactly spend it sleeping… least until long after everyone had dozed off. Risa having made a bed out of Itami, the kitchen becoming something of a moshpit, and the main living area being cramped with what looked like human caterpillars.

"Ain't this is a breach of at least, one amendment?" he referred to the fact that they had occupied a civilian's house for the night.-

"Wrong country, Cam." Bannon had murmured in the lowlight of the bathroom, only a faint green glow stick keep the bathroom alight with the moonlight from some askew window. They were supposed to go to sleep with only the stuff beneath their casuals, and seeing as they hadn't packed for this kind of stay, boxers and an undershirt had been both on their hardened forms. They met like this more or less, years ago, in some motel in a central Texas so far away.

She had been on the run, he had been about to finally leave Texas behind.

Both had saw their destination with the US Military.

Of course, Masterson, as observant as he had been back then, had seen her bruises, her lack of wedding ring and the actual tan line denoting the absence of it, the chip on her shoulder as she spent cold nights sulking on the balcony of their motel.

Naturally he had introduced himself to her.

The last days before one sells their body and mind to the government and make themselves a soldier was a week of liberation, at least, that had been the excuse for how the next week had gone for the pair.

To put it short, it was the most enjoyable week Bannon and Masterson had in their lives, thus far, and there was something of a thought that led to them to believe that, upon total coincidence after several years apart in the military, divine intervention had ended them up as sergeants underneath a newly minted 2nd lieutenant by the name of Kristian Emerson.

Without much warning, she had looped her index finger around the knot behind her head that kept her eyepatch in place, and it had fluttered down to the floor, between her legs.

Masterson had, perhaps a bit too pitfully, reached out his hand a cupped the left side of her face. Bathroom was small enough.

"Doctor had said that this thing should be back to full usage in a month or so." But now it had been a faded, milky mess, a visible, ragged scar that was diagonal across her eyelids. Shrapnel had gotten her good.

Masterson's own ragged hand had pushed back hair that he had rarely ever seen or felt: grown out unkept, uncared for, brown strands.

"I did mean it when I said you looked nice, earlier."

She had raised her own hand and grabbed onto the arm that was stretched out to her.

"I know you did, you big sociopathic goof."

"Sociopathic? Oh come on, you know I'm better than that."

"Well, every one of us are some sort of –pathic over there. We have to be."

Masterson had pinched her cheek and she had returned the favor by clamping his arm.

"Ow. But seriously, come on, we're on leave. Let's not think about that. If we need to see a shrink later then so be it, you know the VAs got us covered."

"You assume I'm going back to America."

"Oh?"

She slumped her shoulders and her eyes grew deep. "The other side of the Gate, Cam. Lots of real estate, land, people, good connections we've got. I think I can pull a few strings to have my butt relocated."

"Yeah, well, I'm not leaving your butt over there on your own." was Masterson's immediate response.

"Aww."

"Serious, Lisa. What the hell are you thinking?"

"Moving, Cam. Starting up my business again over there. Lelei could help me out."

"You do that, I'm coming too. I swear to god."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Why though?"

"I've got two reasons, one you'll believe, the other you won't."

"Let me guess."

"I worry about you."

"Yes yes, I worry about you too and all the stupid shit you say and do, but what's the one I won't believe?"

Masterson had chuckled with how she had taken that statement in stride, the two silently touching foreheads affectionately.

"…Yeah, well.. heh."

"Out with it."

"I care for the people over there. We owe them." he hardened up.

"I believe them both you ass!" she had replaced her forehead with her fingers as she had pushed Masterson back softly.

He shrugged as he had put his back to the tile walls again. "My parents won that case of theirs, the big one, because they believed what it was about you know?"

The west was dying, slowly. That was a fact that had contributed greatly to America's reel back into its own borders. California's droughts and wildfires had teared the state asunder, the entire coast on the precipice of disaster as the water ran out and the population boomed in ways that America could not handle. The example that had been made of California by nature had propelled a great amount of progressive, green, and sustainable technology to save America, essentially, and with that, had been the coming of progressive thinking that had been a part of the homefront's changing field.

Oil in Texas had been dried up for years at that point, but yet the oil fields remained, running on the bone dried remains of America's west. It was with this new highlighted focus on the environment, of the old bones of American infrastructure, that scrutiny was brought to these oil fields for reclamation.

Cam's parents had been a pair of lawyers that had fought, and dragged, one case all the way to the highest courts in the name of land and man: letting nature reclaim what was, even if the desperation of black gold had dragged those who owned the dead acreage held onto it, like a lifeline to an age gone by.

They believed that the land had to be reclaimed for the Texas people, because it was what they were due, to do away with the old yesterdays that kept farmers, ranchers, general other uses of land development, out.

They were Texans themselves, after all. They lived there.

He understood what it was like, then.

Their land, their blood, by a people from somewhere else.

They had no right.

Then again, rights and justice were not currency in political dealings and war. The only currency that mattered was power.

"I don't know. That situation over there is fucked, with what the Japanese are trying to do." Bannon agreed. "Maybe it's just gotta happen."

"Don't be so resigned to fate. Fate doesn't do jacksquat, that thing only lays out the groundwork."

"You can rant about fate for another day, alright hun?" she scooted over to Masterson's side and used his shoulder as a pillow. "Feels like we're gonna go shopping tomorrow, or something."

"Hmph. Alright. See you in the morning."

"Night."

* * *

Three hours of god damned sleep, and yet I was as awake as the day itself as I silently stirred up a few breakfast shakes as Itami handled the French toast.

He saw my shaking, my blank gaze, and I jumped as he touched my shoulder.

"You alright?"

I looked at him with my green eyes, having long gone cold, bags under them.

"Bad dream." I said simply.

Bad dreams of a human meat grinder I had personally directed. Familiar faces under my gun. I was to blame as it was all before me on that Roman wall: thousands and thousands and thousands of men and women all made into some ugly mass of flesh and steel. Shino was there picking up where I left off as I saw my own reflection in blood pools in that ambiguous dream of horror and loudness.

I was holding Rory's halberd in that dream. _**Using it**_.

I woke up with my hand around my gun.

 _ **Fuck.**_

Itami knew what kind of bad dreams.

He had watched his mother burn herself almost to death, before his very eyes, and for him to blame, supposedly. He had once had those dreams too, for a long while.

This was how wars started: in the hearts of men, and that had led to a little- No. A big something I had missed out on as an American soldier, one which had plagued a million comrades, a million brothers and sisters in arms.

Here I saw that very first signifier. The first milestone. _The end of my life_.

No. I had men to lead. No time for this bullshit now. Probably just a one off. I was only out there for two weeks.

"I'm fine." I said.

"You're not going to be." he answered defiantly, squeezing my shoulder harder.

"Just- just…" he got his hand off my shoulder as the first signs of life from the living room had started to stir, Rory, like a zombie, going off to the window and laying on her knees, hands brought together in a prayer. "I need this day off, Youji."

"We all do. We all do." It was a one armed hug, on account of the other being used to cradle a plate of French toast. He brought me in for just a second before going off to the living room.

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and followed him with the shakes.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _I won't have the hospitals cluttered up with these sons of bitches who haven't got the guts to fight. Send that yellow son of a bitch back to the front line._

 _George S. Patton, regarding a soldier he slapped after he was admitted to a field hospital for signs of post-traumatic stress, 1943_


	13. 1-10: Captain Emerson

"Emerson's Special. Drink up." I personally had put on a few pounds in muscle mass and general density ever since Ginza. Training necessitated it. Masterson had put on the news on a slow rumble, stirring everyone awake as Itami passed out French toast and paper plates along with my rather overbearing breakfast shake.

They would thank me later.

"Classic, this one." he said as he took down my chocolaty drink.

Harris and Masterson had chugged theirs down fast enough, Bannon and Loke politely refusing after the first sip. In imitation Bozes and Pina had also shot back the glass.

Bozes hacking afterwards by the sudden intake of a rather rich drink hadn't been exactly a show of good judgement, but they had stomached it well enough, even with morning guts.

"Emerson's Special?" she asked as she wiped her lips with her sleeve.

"Protein shake slash breakfast shake. Protein powder, chocolate, almond butter, some fruit, spinach. Just some of the works. Makes you big and strong like Harris here."

The man had flexed his form, and damn was the man big. He hadn't been quite the gentle giant trope, but he was a football player and all that entailed. One day he had dropped his contract with a college and went the way of the military. Said that some dream one night compelled him to do it. Either way he made his country proud, and that was enough for him and his toothy grin that had made me more often than not think of the man as a shark in all forms but physical: always moving, deadly, and oddly a good swimmer.

He had been the one to lug around the LMGs anyway, so I liked having him assigned to Masterson's team. In training, Team Two had been often the point squad, Team One more versatile than just being the tip of the spear.

Loke, being the morning person she wasn't, had grumbled as Bannon had tied her black hair back with a tie, Risa having gone to Bannon's hair and done some magic with a ribbon on it which kept her face sour. Bannon didn't enjoy having long hair at all. Still, she had tolerated Doc coming over with a small flash light and looking into her left eye as he flipped up her eyepatch, making her look at the light as he made it look at the four cardinal directions.

"Not bad for losing 75% of your left eye." The rest, as I heard, was cloned tissue. "How's the vision?"

She had murmured as she shut her right eye and looked around with the milky pupil of hers. "My color perception is crap and everything's all faded most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"Occasionally it clears up and it's not that bad, colored too except for maybe reds, but then it goes back to murky and black and white again. I mean, I guess I could read some big lettering at maybe, a few feet out with just this eye, but it's all black and white usually.

"Well, the doctors at Yokota shot me a memo that this is, more or less, normal minus the color perception. Could be an issue."

"Will it get better?"

"Ah, organ replacements are nothing new. Doesn't mean with the more delicate things that they're foolproof. Worst comes to worst we'll just have to rip this one out and give you a new one entirely instead of preserving what was left."

Lelei had clambered after taking her drink to little note at all, she staring right into Bannon's eye, tilting her head, perplexed. She had seen Bannon take that piece of stone through the helmet and into her eye socket, destroying her vision. It was by her magic that the stone itself was ripped out.

"Medical technology, Miss Lelena. Saved my life, saved hers." Doc said as he clicked off his flashlight and wrote into his own notes after pressing down on her eye bulb over the lid, gauging for pressure.

Bannon slid her eyepatch back down. "To be honest, I would've just preferred it if they just got me a new eye in general."

"Well, hard to do on such a short notice. I can put in the request to get one cloned at the moment, but you'll have to stay on this side of the Gate, and I doubt High Command wants that. Might take some time for your pathways to get used to a new one entirely even."

"No rest for the weary, sweetheart." Masterson had said as he put back on his field jacket, Bannon grumbling and doing the same.

 _ **"But I'm missing a god damned eye!"**_

"Field hospital on the other side should be good enough to work on it if it gets worse, me and Kurokawa are good enough." Doc had said as he had nodded away from Bannon, the woman groaning. All things considered, she was glad she hadn't been brained by shrapnel, but losing half her sight for the meanwhile had been distressing to her. She really had been the worse injury, even Hauvsbaum's stabbing was stitched up soon enough.

I had neglected to fully say that I had suffered something of some internal bleeding during the battle, but as long as the blood was still inside of me I was alright.

"Retail therapy mean anything to you, Sergeant Bannon?" she had raised an eyebrow as Itami stood before all the group, now waking up.

"Not that type of 'gal, lieutenant." As much of a curmudgeon Bannon had become, she was a little more interested, truthfully, in spending money that was not her own if not given a choice, Risa flashing what was left of her alimony funds to Bannon, unknowing that those same payments had been her bane on her side of things.

"All right! Listen up!" Itami had brought us all to full coherence, Pina and Bozes adjusting each other's hair as I sat down with my men, Loke the least up, given her disagreements with anything before six o'clock. "We're going to spend today playing around!"

Masterson had clapped his hands together and raised them to the sky in victory at the announcement.

Me and Tomita had looked at the man oddly.

"Doesn't seem like the best time, lieutenant." Tomita said.

"Nonsense," he responded. "It's always the right time."

Tomita hadn't fought, handing off the M45 to Masterson, but the man waving it off and letting him keep it, shoulder holster and the spare magazines coming. Masterson had always been an advocate of buying his own gear, as was why he had a shoulder webbing for concealed carry instead of our thigh holsters.

"My motto is to eat! To sleep! and to play! Everything that happens in between is life!" he waved his arm out triumphantly. He really wanted to have a good day today. "Is all."

Chuka had looked from the man she had been calling father (and I really should've said something about that by now to Doc) to me. "Emerson, do you have a motto?"

The entire crowd looked at me as they were recoiling on the inane properties of Itami's motto and how it tied into today. I fell back on my favorite phrase. "Uhrm… Jesus Christ?"

Rory looked over to me, recognizing that it was a name. "Who?"

Bannon had thumbed out her unused cross necklace with her dog tags. "Long story short: The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."

"God." Masterson pointed his finger up at the ceiling.

"What religions are there in this world?" Lelei's ever present questioning had reminded me of what me and Itami had promised the royals.

"That's a very, very broad topic, Lelei, and, if today is gonna be a free day…" I slid my words off to Itami as I gave him a questionative look.

"If there's anyone looking for us all, I think it would be best to go split up and go out on the town!" Itami's excuse had made Shino gape, but Risa had been more than estatic.

"Yes! Yes! Shopping! That means Harajuku and Shibuya!"

On account that Hitman hadn't spent anything in three months, Loke, Harris, Doc, Bannon, and Masterson all thumbing out their wallets to the sky, making Risa salivate more, they didn't argue that, if needed, some retail therapy could take place today.

Itami looked at the envelope that Risa had been holding. "Is that…?"

"What? Am I being left out? I even let you stay overnight! Is this bullying? Am I being bullied?"

Itami had waved his hands to ward off that kind of thought, beckoning his ex-wife to be within arm's reach as he held her by his side. "No, of course not." he said endearingly. "Any naysayers?"

Hitman and what of RCT3 that had been here had all exchanged looks, some mutual agreement put over.

"I mean, we are in Tokyo…" Shino had relented.

"If I can pick out some more garbs…" Rory had said wearily. Concept of shopping wasn't exactly relevant to her, but fact of the matter was she was more than happy with the black dress she had on now, bought just only yesterday. Shopping for clothes, broadly, had seemed to please all the refugees, even Lelei, Risa rallying them.

The royals had seemed left out as I silently pulled out my phone and texted Nutt to meet me at a place by lunch, the rest of Hitman having a nice few days leave. "Tomita, I heard Bozes talk to you about going to a library for a date?"

The man had almost been tricked to respond seriously before holding his tongue and shaking his head desperately. The word "date" had been translatable across two languages enough for Bozes to blush and look down on the floor in her sit.

"Urh, right, Lieutenant Emerson."

"Well, if that's the case, I'll go too, borrow a conference room or something and start teaching." I looked over to Pina. "Like I promised."

Lelei had looked over to, drawn between either shopping or knowledge gathering. I knew her plight, and so did Risa, hugging her from behind to her surprise. "Oh dear. We can drop you off where we need to when you want."

I nodded. "Metropolitan Center Library after lunch, Risa-chan?"

Itami clapped his hands as he threw on his own coat. "It is decided then! Cam!"

Masterson snapped to his feet as if he was called for drill. "Yes sir?!"

"We're going to the winter exhibit!"

 _ **"HOOah!"**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 14**_

 _ **The Special Region – Italica**_

* * *

"I can't believe it English! You're a sir now!"

"Sir Alton Wilbur. Now that rests easy on the ears."

Myui, despite her age, had been a royal all the same, and understood the certain nuances and honorary traditions which had come along with being the new head of the Fromar family and, technically, ruler of Italica, which overnight had become, probably, the most powerful city state of the Empire just by its occupying force alone.

She hadn't, even as a child, feared or misunderstood the men in tan and green, and she fully appreciated the fact that they had saved her town. With that, careful guidance from the Rose Order more or less ignored, she had awarded the commanders of the great iron beasts, the M1A1 tanks, and gave them knighthood of Italica and the appropriate signifiers.

For Kingdom Come's commander, that had been a sword and a red cape, not unlike Princess Co Lada's.

Myui was still ruler, through and through as said Major Sevson in an absurd moment that would probably only happen once in his life: he bowed to a child and swore by his name for her. _**"We will rebuild this town well. We will rebuild this town right. We will rebuild this town for you."**_

The JSDF hadn't any protest, as long as RCT3 had been the liaison force there. They were busy setting up two other military bases that had pretty much secured the territory of Arnus and Italica, a very fruitful land, under the control of the JSDF.

Busy enough not to be counting how many new Marines had been going past the Gate to Italica, the Airfield finally being readied for combat flight to head out once the F-4s and the F-18s from the Marine Corp inventory were brought through, the biggest boost in firepower, once again, from the Americans in the form of an AC-130 gunship.

The world's, or rather, this world's quietest military buildup had been happening from the inside out, just in case. If the other contingency was for getting trapped on that side of the Gate, the other contingency was if the Japanese were the ones who were doing the trapping.

That was the one that the JSDF had suspected in some way or form, given the immediate transfer of Marines to Italica: an American base to call their own to do what they please, separate from the Japanese SOP in this world.

Wherein on SOP was focused on acting on the Special Region as if it was foreign territory, the other SOP was focused on acting on the Special Region as if it was a place where people lived their lives.

The Marines had been good at picking up the pieces and rebuilding broken towns, a testament to mistakes made in what felt like a long time ago. As is why Arnus had been built so fast: the Marines knew how to build, as much as they knew how to destroy.

Some even knew how to teach.

Myui had been more than willing to sponsor, and attend herself, some general education and human rights classes hosted by the US Marines that could teach along with the language classes as provided by the Japanese.

After much heated talk it was decided Japanese would be the lingua franca.

Didn't really hurt Wilbur that much, even if he didn't know the language. The translation software in his earpiece had been working just fine with the Japanese. As for the actual lingua franca of this world, that had been a work in progress.

Still communication between Marine and Italica inhabitant had been streamlined enough that when the Marines offered to pay for collecting the spent brass over the bloodied fields around Italica, the kids who hadn't been attended the hundred big classes had went out and done just that.

So that's what Warlord 1-3, hulled down in front of what was left of the South Wall, had been doing: keeping overwatch of the kids as they collected the shiny leftbehinds of a massacre, the funeral pyre having burned hot and bright enough to have mostly gone away, leaving Italica with a surplus of weapons and armor to add to its trade capital wares.

Italica and Arnus had become quite a civilian safe area, all things considered.

Most of the raider population had been torn up during the raid on Italica, and what was left of the Imperial forces had retreated over the mountain range separating Arnus and the Capital, regrouping and reorganizing.

What that had meant was that, for perhaps the first time in years, this territory was safe to live in, full and full, especially given the military power of the men in green and tan.

Sergeant Sir Alton Wilbur had been proud to display it as he sat on the tank's turret on a rather nice, if not ominous day still overlapped by the battle that had taken place only a meek two days ago, watching kids at work when they weren't at play or at school.

Families by the dozen had come to Italica from villages around just on the prospect of free education from these people from the other world, and indeed a privilege meant for the royals had been instead been a simple right for the people in the other world. Classes were getting full, but it was no hamper as Italica had gotten more and more manpower ontop of its prisoner backed workforce.

Among the most interesting of the new class participants, albeit gratingly, had been the Rose Order. The order's old man and the MEU's old man having made friends quick enough. Men of age and warfare tend to come across each other well, regardless of side.

In regards to the people picking up brass, they had been paid in the Marine Corp standards: Lollipops, Skittles, the occasional sloppy second magazine cut out displaying very beautiful models, Chef Boyardee, and, most importantly, knowledge.

Pen wasn't mightier than the sword, but a smart man would better off than a man who only knew how to kill.

 _"Shower, not because we tell you to, but because consistent hygiene will make you live a hundred years more."_

 _"Send your kids to school for them to eventually give back to the community as leaders and creators."_

 _"Learning how to do arithmetic offhand will keep some greedy shopkeepers off your back."_

 _"….Arithmetic means math."_

 _"Math is…. uh, well. Stay in school kids."_

Wilbur, fan of candy as he was, had been handing out knowledge mostly as baskets of brass had passed by their tank to be delivered to the marine armorer, who had taken up shop where the blacksmith had.

For the armorer in question, it was an experiment of self-sufficiency; of being able to reload and rearm independent of the Gate and Arnus. Besides, the Japanese hadn't really cared about their own spent brass enough for an extra surplus to have been steadily been piling up in golden piles like gold coin. Hell, creating new rounds from melted swords and armor had been an interesting experiment.

Worryingly though, back market trade had been using these spent brass casings as currency, disregarding the Imperial currency that the JSDF and the Marines had been more or less fine with using for the interim.

"Remember kids, vote Republican!" Wilbur had yelled as a group of children had walked past them, brass in baskets and ready for a drop off. They, not understanding, had simply smiled and waved back to the knight and his monster.

"Seem friendly enough." the loader had yawned as a he held a few five fifty six rounds between his fingers like claws. Thousands had been killed, and thus, hundreds of thousands of rounds were fired.

It was Lelei's suggestion actually, that had the local populace believe that the brass had been magically imbued, and contained a great worth akin to gems. As much as the armorer had tried to explain otherwise, it stuck to the line of refugees and returnees who, along the corridor between Italica and Arnus, had started returning to their communities and villages, while also establishing locations along the route, affirmed in safety by the men in green and tan.

Outside of Arnus, the Japanese hadn't made themselves too concerned with the populace, busy with their further base building, but the Marines and RCT3 had been happy to help and foster a certain American way among the people, that is, after things had returned to their version of normal.

"Why do they need us oilmen again if they're setting up solar panels and a grid without any fossil fuels?" the gunner had bellyached as he shot cigarette smoke up into that blue sky breeze.

"Just in case we need to fall back into old ways again." Wilbur had answered as he had held his sword up into the light: exactly like Crocae Mors, Ceaser's own sword. The glint was a mirror sheen, and damned if it wouldn't look good back home over the fireplace. "Say what you want about our old trade, but it worked."

"Well," the loader had lamented from old times. "What is old is new again, apparently." he pointed a family coming toward them with what looked like a wooden case.

Wilbur had stepped up and presented himself.

"Something the matter chaps?" he said to the family of farmers, it seemed, dirt on their face and clothes, a heavy weight to whatever they were carrying.

"Nothing is the matter sir! But if I may, we'd like to make a good impression on the new knights and defenders of Italica! You see, my family has lived on these lands for many years, and have been afforded great wealth because of it."

"Well, respectfully, you don't look it."

The father had been the one talking as the child and wife had bowed their heads.

"Oh, all the troubles in these last few days have made us as such, but anyhow, I'm sure our offering to you, oh sir, will leave a better impression on you for my family than our appearance!" man had something of a straw hat on his brow, but he wasn't that old underneath that shade as people had passed him, on the way back out to collect more brass.

Wilbur had pointed with his sword at the trunk. Why the hell not.

When it opened, the contents had been as bright as the sun. Bright enough to revert Wilbur back to his maiden version of English in total shock. _"O' bollocks. 'nd ey thought taggin 'long 'n this cock up 'as somethin' I'd fallen arse over tit fur."_

All that glittered was not always gold.

But gold did very much glitter, and it painted the face of Kingdom Come's operators brightly.

* * *

 _ **Tokyo - Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library – Group Reading Room 4A**_

* * *

The funny thing about Nutt, in Emerson's view, was that he had gotten his degree in teaching and was fully capable of becoming one. Donald Nutt was an odd man in that sense, though he was alright, a capable grenadier when it came down to it. He had chalked up a few groups during Italica's defense with his forty mike mike.

Emerson wouldn't want any other person to help him teach people. Always was a matter of getting the right people in the right roles.

"Morning, corporal." the two men had shook hands briefly as Nutt had entered into the makeshift classroom, Pina and Bozes sitting expectantly with their notes out like students.

"Morning, sir." he said as he had ran a hand through something of a mullet and a goatee. Man had looked downright hipster when it came down to it. Truth be told, Emerson had reckoned, he would've been the hippest/coolest teacher in school now with what he had been through.

"You guys rest up alright?"

"Yeah, mostly sticking around Tokyo for now, Hauvsbaum recovered more or less and a good portion of us rented a suite up over the bay. Rest of us just went back to our bunks at Yokota for some shut eye. Few days ain't enough for a good leave, truthfully…" he had explained as he spread out his tote bag on the front most desk, Tomita locking the door behind them and standing guard over it. "Where's Sergeant Bannon, sir?" he asked for his squad lead.

"She's alright, out shopping with the refugees, she'll be redeploying with an eyepatch though, so, yeah."

"Well, shame. Anyway, what's on the agenda today?" he bowed toward the royalty courteously, Pina getting up and bowing in turn.

"Basic human history."

Nutt had paused as his visage had went blank. "Sir, that's a… well… I'm gonna need to take these guys to college for a semester to get a full read out on that."

"Just the important bits, Nutt," Emerson slapped his shoulder. "Roman Empire on."

"Well, do we know exactly where they are in terms of our timespan?"

"Sometime after the death of Jesus Christ… wager, maybe, around 150-200 AD comparatively."

Nutt had bit his lip as he tilted his head for a second. "Well, that leaves only the following eighteen hundred years then."

"We have until six, so you got eight hours to teach. Can you do it man?"

"Practice for after my military service then." he looked at Emerson and then at the women, expectantly looking at him. He walked over, clasping his hands. "Princess, Miss….?"

Tomita had answered for him. "Palesti. Her name is Bozes Co Palesti."

The young woman in questioned nodded in the affirmative.

"Alright, Princess Co Lada and Miss Palesti. Good morning, you remember me?"

Pina had looked over the man as royals often did. "You are one of Itami's team?"

"No, Emerson's."

The lieutenant had waved as he had typed a way on a tablet, trying to find some way to fully summarize all the wonderful technology this world had in a way that these women could understand. He had also thrown Nutt a laser pointer remote, a controller for the holographic display in the middle of the room: an affair which had used projectors on the roof and ceiling to display 3D images in real space. Man had taken no delay to hook his phone up to the connection.

"Well, seeing as Emerson needs an actual teacher here, I answered his call."

"You're a…teacher?"

"Ah, wonderful thing, Romans are. Siri, bring up image of Imperial Roman Army regulars on Google." Nutt had talked into his phone and suddenly the projectors had flashed to life as the window shades were drawn. Siri had responded as a servant had, and the women were shocked by the voice from the box having summoned the holographic images of a very familiar visage: that of a soldier of the Empire.

"Much as I understand it, the regular Roman Legionnaire was picked up from the young age of eighteen or such, told to fight for another decade, and spent that decade expanding their Empire's borders as both the armed men of that country, and the ones that made the backbone and the infrastructure needed to expand that Empire. It was a very good army, in my opinion, until the land grants to retired soldiers ran out, the money dried up, and these men had found themselves lost in a world not as a man, but as a soldier. I personally became a man, and a teacher, before I had become a soldier. Soldier is only a temporary role, in reality."

The two woman had been totally mystified by the holographic display displaying images of Romans. To them, it had been images of themselves: an Empire from long ago and all the red and silver that it brought in its legions.

"Sorcery…?" Bozes had mistaken Nutt as something like Lelei.

"Oh no. Only technology. This," he passed his hand through an image, the visage warping for a second as he passed his hand through a not-really-there portrait of a legionnaire on a horse. "is not magic, your highness, just progress. From here on in you will learn about the history of our world, and learn that it is a world without magic, just a world where we had to make do with what we had, just as much as your empire makes do with what you have."

"But-"

Nutt raised a finger to the protesting princess. "So it is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you can win a hundred battles without a single loss. If you only know yourself, but not your opponent, you may win or may lose. If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always endanger yourself. Sun Tzu. 512."

His voice was firm as Siri heard his words, throwing up the images of an illustrated scroll of The Art of War.

"Fact as it stands, princess, you are our enemy, and we are yours. You may want peace, but I know in the long span of human history peace is not the most productive state of human being. So. Today, you will know your enemy first, before you know what he wields. Besides, not so often is the enemy willing to outline every weakness he has to an enemy."

Gratingly, Pina had settled down and raised her gift pen from Doc.

"If you have any questions, please raise your hand, and I'll try my best to answer."

With that, they began.

* * *

"Where the fuck do we even start, sergeant?" I said to Tomita as we had looked over my summary of notes regarding technology, about two hours into Nutt's lecture, more often than no relying on Wikipedia for information rather than self-knowledge. Didn't really matter though, his words were worth their weight in gold judging by how many pages the two women had been blazing through. They didn't ask questions, they just wrote and wrote. Right through the fall of the Roman Empire which had given them pause, right into the Chinese dynasties, the Middle Ages, the Dark Ages, the advent of Christ, Muhammed, Japan's own rise, England, Kingdoms the world over and the resurgence of a Holy Roman Empire. Right onto the precipice of the 1500s.

No words, only ink and paper and the tears forming at Pina's eyes as she realized what our history had been, and why our history would speak for her own people. Even as wet spots formed on the paper as silent drips fell, even as Bozes' mind had gone numb upon the realization of how far ahead we were, they kept on writing like a lifeline. The year, a dash, and the events of that year in an orderly fashion, pages set aside for the definitions and history of kingdoms long come and gone and fallen.

I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't feel an iota of pride, of being a modern man, in a modern nation, in our world.

"Well, in terms of technology, let's just try the last two decades or so."

"Alright, we'll start from 2015 on in terms of tech… what'd we got?"

"Fourteen new iPhones, for one." Emerson drew his own and put it on the table as they sat in the conference room over notes.

"True enough… but… shit, just start listing things?"

"Well, railguns are a thing, Bannon's eye was fixed up by some bioengineering organ cloning, forty percent of all cars back in America run clean, biotic limbs, test tube meat, particle beam cannons mounted on our carriers…"

"…Self tying shoes. That's a thing. Solar panels are now installed with every new house constructed… our standard issue jackets have multipurpose climate control… people are living into their one hundred tens…"

"Your muscle suits. Don't forget those."

"Right… lots of genetic engineering and things like that…How the hell are we supposed to explain human history if we can't even comprehend the advances of the last twenty years?"

"Well, I suppose to them it doesn't matter. Whether we are a hundred years ahead or fifty, it doesn't matter, we're so far ahead it really doesn't matter."

"Lieutenant." Nutt called for me, the holographic showing off a picture of early modern Britain in the 1550s. "I'm in the sixteenth, I go any further and we're coming up to America's colonization…" I blanked on him.

Pina had put her pen down for the first time in a few hours and looked at me. "Earlier, I asked, what an American was."

Understanding what the Japanese was a comparatively simple thing to understanding what an American was. Japan had their feudal upbringings, their old eras. America had no such thing. We were a young people, after all, built on principles she wouldn't understand.

"Stop when you get to the Declaration. I'll chime in."

"Aye sir."

"Sir, what if we just explain electricity, off the bat, see where that gets us."

"Technology is more than just one discovery, sergeant. One harnessing of a natural force. It's the compilation of everything. God knows I won't tell them everything. That's up to them to find out."

"Well… how about telling them what we can do?"

"I'm not one for wanking myself to our own technological marvels. I'm sure they're very interested in our firearm technology off the bat… I mean, minus the machining, not that hard to replicate." I said as I had flicked the safety off and on on my .45. "God, we have to treat them like children, and I don't want to come off as condescending."

He wrapped his hands behind his head and leaned back. "Discovery is not often guided, might as well just give 'em that tablet and have a field day with it."

Apple had fully enveloped me into their damned ecosystem, so I had been probably stuck with Apple products for the rest of my life, the iPad Pro 10 in my hands a testament to that. But how ironic it was that I had pulled up child's mode and locked Wikipedia into place on the Apple product. They wanted to learn, so be it.

"You know, if you want an answer to what an American is, I think Lieutenant Emerson can say:" the question was fully placed onto me as I looked up and I saw that historic art piece of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

I stood up and rolled up my sleeve walking through that VR display and distorting the holograph.

"First question you all have and it's about people?"

Pina leaned back into her chair. "It's about you. Many people have noticed the difference between an American and a Japanese back in Italica, my Rose Order…"

"Oh, it's an important distinction, Princess…" I looked for Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, the white men who had declared an America of their own. "What is the purpose of the government of the Empire, Princess?"

"To… govern the Empire?"

"And that is true for my country, my nation, Princess, but if your government is only acting on the goal of governing itself, that is where you'll find the first difference between me and you. The Empire and America." I had been thumbing on my phone through different contextual images, the British colonies that were once were put up on the screen on a map.

"A mere three hundred years ago America was only the name of a continent which an Empire, the British Empire, if you have been keeping notes, had claimed as its own to fuel itself as other powers emerged to challenge it."

"Understandable." she said, knowing of the British Empire and its grip on the world at the time: from India, to Africa, to Australia. It was an empire bigger than her own, but one that hers was almost there in measure, even if it had been a few centuries behind. She found pride in that, of the Empire's own territory. Nothing to think of how disconnected the fringe territories were.

"People came there to live, to work, to get away from the Empire as best they could, but alas power tends to cross oceans all the same. Unfair usage of power pushes those people to push that power back…." The Boston Massacre had been put up on the holograph. "Taxation without representation, the quelling of voices who dared speak against the King of that Empire, obstructing justice, occupying armies… Grievances that went unheard, made to answer as rebellion broke out against the British under the banner of something we called back then, "These United States".

"So you are nothing more than an Empire's rebellious colony?"

"Oh in essence yes, but we didn't just stand for independence for ourselves, our defining documents hold one answer to your question: who Americans are. And that is this: "One mind, one heart, one soul, all bonded together by the unalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.""

"So you fight….?" Bozes eyes had widened as they realized more context behind why we were there, something more than just a lost man and his dead family.

"They fight because they believe we are a threat to their life, liberty, and happiness."

I scrunched my nose at that. "Perhaps, but, it is not something that applies just to us. It is a belief that we want across all people, all individuals."

"But how about your own nation, first?"

I unconsciously winced. It was a valid point, across these last twenty years.

"We bear many burdens, as Americans, Princess. Ourselves, the world, peace and sanity….We have been at war for 236 years, out of our 242 years as a nation, against ourselves, against the Japanese, against a thousand different enemies the world over that made us powerful, that tried us, that made us take big steps toward the future… but, we're not even close to, in all reality, morally judging you and your Empire as a whole outright."

Nutt had gone on after me.

"We once sold people, slaves, one of the very last to keep doing so, discriminated against people of Lieutenant Emerson's type, of people of a different skin color, of a different sexual orientation, male, female, anything that didn't fall in line with racist and ethnocentric tones as wanted by an uneducated populace that made those who fell into these categories suffer. In order to get rid of those injustices, we had to fight, for every single one.

The Mexican-American War, 1846. The Civil War, 1863. Nat Turner's Rebellion in 1831, the Raid on Harper's Ferry. Stonewall, Montgomery, Ferguson, the 2019 NYC Riots… Americans been fighting Americans over and over and over again ever since our independence for our freedom and liberty. It's in our blood as Americans to fight like that, and to introduce people abroad to that notion."

"Princess, do you not find it odd that a man of my skin color is leading all these people?" I asked, out of curiosity. She kept quiet as she avoided my gaze. "I hope you don't, but I'm sure there's always been that certain undertone you have seen people of my skin color as, but I'm led to the contrary, based on your Order."

She looked up at me and Bozes. "What?"

"Women fighting in a culture and civilization such as yours. It is commendable and it breaks the norms of that era. You had to fight to get where you are now, no?"

"The feeling of… being denied." she relented. The feeling of anger, of not being able to do something for so long until the threshold breaks, and you are repaid in everyway possible. Not revenge. But reclamation.

"Imagine that feeling, but take it into your heart, and have a nation defined by that blood curdling emotion alone. You understand that an America is also this: fighters."

"What a horribly cruel nation, yours must be then." she said.

"Some years, some times, more often than not… Sherman's March to the Sea, the Japanese Internment camps, the burning of Vietnam, the Third Iraq War, what we've done in the Philippines at the beginning of the twentieth century, the use of nuclear weapons, oh, we have a tired history, and we were all hypocrites, at some point or another…"

"In the name of freedom? Equality? Is it worth it?"

I looked only at Nutt as he shied away from outright answering, continuing on.

"Talk to me before VJ-Day."

"Aye sir."

* * *

 _ **Japan – Tokyo – Shibuya Ward**_

* * *

All it takes is the click, the image, the sound and the fury of a past event to come pull a person back in time to their most maddening moment, to where, much like gravity, insanity engulfed them as they were pushed over the edge.

Dragon Age V: Continuum was that tick for Chuka with how one of its billboards had been a real to life size representation of a dragon, complete with flames and the occasional huff of smoke from its nose.

Advertising had been so fierce that the billboards had been mechanical marvels altogether, the yellow eyes of that fake dragon looking right at Chuka as she had dropped her shopping bags of nice clothes just recently bought, on the way to drop off Lelei, screamed and clasped her hand over her mouth, and then promptly fell into Bannon's grip, and over her shoulders in a short order.

Even unconscious the girl's breathing wasn't healthy.

Bannon had seen this before from the Vets who had been cycling back from Afghanistan or Iraq. The trigger of a jackhammer, of fireworks, of any threat of violence.

Of all the reactions that such traumatized people have, Chuka's was convenient, if nothing else.

Lelei had looked out from behind her stack of electronic appliances and books, a winter jacket over her summer dress, as picked out by Risa for her.

"It is not real." she said stating the obvious in the crowds that passed them by.

Bannon had scoffed as she had gotten the Elf's arms around her neck. "Reality is a fickle thing, Lelei, your mind can do stuff to you that is worse than some real threats."

Broadly, even Rory in her infinite wisdom, had let the soldier silently handle the situation with Chuka. The horrors of war are often dealt with only be soldiers, in all senses. Before, after, and during. It was what soldiers were for, after all.

"Lisa, you really okay with only that?" Risa had said, only noting the small tote bag she had filled with a few knick knacks, getting off the topic of Chuka's faint. If Bannon hadn't been outwardly worried, they didn't need to be.

Compared to the rest of the women today, she hadn't really spent much, all things considered. Sunglasses, a better designed eye patch than the one the Yakota military hospital had thrown on her, better headphones, an air freshener. The works of a woman with one eye for the time being, in the military, deployed to a fantasy land.

Totally normal.

"I'm not an expensive woman, Risa." she said as she hauled Chuka and kept on walking, Chuka's own bought items in her other arm: a compound bow among them.

Apparently the JSDF on the other side of the Gate had employed them in some manner, Lelei as a translator, Chuka and Rory as an environmental advisor and a religious consultor appropriately. All things considered, they were good at their jobs enough to garner quite a wage in their short time on employment.

"My, my, Bannon, you've certainly seem like you've got an opposition to spending money in general." Rory had noticed, Bannon grimacing. She had bought a few things off-brand, even when they went to boutiques and designer stores.

She had been a saver by circumstance, and it stuck with her.

"When a person takes your money, destroys your life, sends you to the street, and tries to steal your name, you learn to be conservative about what you spend, Rory." she grit through her teeth. Rory had moaned at the pure hatred of the statement subtly.

"Did he send you to the military?" Lelei asked.

"No. That was my choice." and damned if she didn't earn the right to be a Ranger. She brushed back her hair with the back of her hand, light brown strands that appeared almost orange in sunlight, her small face, even when tanned, still with notable freckles.

"War is preferable to the domestic life to you?" she continued.

"War is preferable to the domestic life that was with me at the time, Lelei." The library had come into view as they kept walking down the crowded street, her breath cold, and her voice turning raspy again. "The difference between me and Risa, is that my divorce was one where the man now relies on me… and I am bound by law to give up a little bit of my meager earnings to him, each month."

"Also the fact that you hate him?" Risa chimed in to the other divorcee.

"That too… Lelei, here's your stop. We'll come back around by six." She had nodded simply at the woman soldier, her hair in a bun and ribbon that did not at all fit her persona, but courtesy of Risa. "Now what the hell am I going to do with you?" she referred to the elf on her back, her breathing having settled.

"Lisa, if I can ask…" Risa had came up next to Bannon as they watched Lelei safely enter the library, even with her load of bought cargo. It was by Bannon's suggestion that she had bought the same model laptop she did. It was nice, she had thought, that Masterson had brought her personal stuff to her, just to make sure it was safe, that laptop included. "What's wrong with your voice?"

Bannon coughed to make to make it as clear as it could again, she motioned to her throat. "When I was young I had some really bad Laryngitis, had to get it operated on."

"Can't you get a new voice box or whatever…?"

Bannon shrugged. "When the technology was available to fix it, I was dirt poor. Now I'm in the military. Don't exactly have the time, you know."

"Ah…Anyway. Want to go lingerie shopping?!"

"….Whatever you want, hun."

* * *

 ** _Japan – Tokyo - Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden_**

* * *

"More of a fan of sci-fi you know, I mean, like Kay said, Space Adventure Cobra was the shit. Even Evangelion, before the Redux films."

"I don't follow Anno too much, actually. He's big, I know, but I'm not a fan of mechas."

"For a man born in 1995, I'm ashamed you didn't ride Evangelion out, when 3.33 came out. Man, what a disaster that was!"

"I'd rather not you talk shit about Evangelion, Sergeant Masterson."

Masterson had thought Itami had been leading him through a shortcut in the park, but he had intended to meet up with someone instead, actually. Two people in fact. Both old men, old commanders, and someone Masterson would have no doubts in his mind to salute to.

He snapped around and dropped his bag of manga and doujins, right arm at his forehead and feet at forty five. "Colonel!"

"I… personally consider Evangelion to be an important series to me, Sergeant Masterson. Please, don't talk shit about my interests." The Hispanic commander had been besides an old Japanese man both of the soldiers identified immediately as Japan's Minister of Defense, and the Minister of the Special Region.

Itami had only bore salute for the sake of Colonel Chigurh Andrade.

Chigurh had saluted both of the men down, looking around after. "Emerson not here?"

"Sorry, colonel," Itami explained. "Can't quite get him into manga."

Chigurh made a few "tsk" noises with his mouth as Itami and the Defense Minister shook hands like old friends, which they were. "And I was counting on him being here."

"Twenty years ago, was it?" Itami said to the older, shorter Japanese man, his hair slicked back with a noted sharpness. "We had first met each other and walked through this park?"

He nodded. "I'd just gotten married and I somehow lost the elections back then."

"And I was still in middle school." Itami fondly remembered. "Should you two really be here without any SPs?"

The Defense Minister shook his head. "Nonsense, we have two Heroes of Ginza right here." he stuck out his hand to Masterson and the man took it carefully. "And one of them has grown from that young child into one of Japan's finest men."

"And the old man from back then has become one of his higher ups." As the two Japanese were reminiscing, Masterson had addressed his base commander.

"Did you need Lieutenant Emerson, sir?"

"Well, mostly for one thing, he's _**Captain Emerson**_ , now."

Masterson had blanked before nodding. "With the way you've been pushing him around, I think he deserves that two rank promotion more than anything."

Itami had given off a warm smirk. "I put in the recommendation to the USFJ… didn't feel right outranking him."

Masterson had lightly punched his shoulder. "Oh come on. And no sugar for the one guy who does want to go to the exhibit with you?"

"Well me, Kay, Lisa, and Kurokawa are quite scared about what will happen if you somehow get put into a better position." Itami responded lightly.

Chigurh had flattened out his leather jacket. Man always had a thing for leather. "Well, technically this promotion is more of a battlefield commission, or something of the like. We'll hold it up to scrutiny later, but as far as I'm concerned too, he's a captain with what he's done."

"Who we've killed…?" Masterson led on.

"What you've lived through, so far."

"So I'll get a promotion yet."

"Maybe, Cameron… If you'll excuse me and the Defense Minister for a moment."

The two Japanese men had pushed down forward the path, almost as if a father and a grown son. For all that Cameron had known, that was it. The two Americans were left alone on that dirt path, a bench right behind them being sat on as Masterson reclaimed his bought magazines and personal items.

A gift for his captain, a gift for Lisa, and the rest being hard candy that was so hard to come across on the other side when the base store wasn't hoarding it.

"Itami's rather chummy with a lot of the higher ups, ain't it?" Cam had said in his accent, habitually trying to tip the lid of a cowboy hat that wasn't there.

"Man's got a lot of friends in a lot of high places. Odd for a man of his… effort level."

"He's a bit bland, I think, but only because he puts so much of himself into his hobby, I think."

The birds, the ruffle of leaves, wind blowing by them coldly as the two murmurings of the two Japanese down by the bridge had talked.

"How's Sancia? Ray?" Cameron asked about the colonel's kids.

"They're fine, Uncle Ikari and them… they're still on the USFJ committee to try and get civil aid over there and the Red Cross." the man grunted as he readjusted his tail bone. "Damned Japanese aren't making it easy for any foreign aid to get through, let alone our own humanitarian supplies."

"Japanese civilians should only be taking in Japanese supplies of course." Cameron said, sarcastically.

"As if those people on the other side are Japanese…"

"No more than the people in Sangin or Baghdad are Americans."

"Problem with claiming territory, people, is that you assume they want you, to be you, in the end. Old habit by the conquering heroes of old. Japanese been doing that, I've heard from the reports, from the other RCTs. Even at Camp Kilgore, Arnus, Roche Hill Base, and Kowan Base. Those that resist are continually made to be persuaded otherwise, eventually."

"What? Japs got their own Gitmo on the otherside already?"

"No. Just an eventuality. Japanese won't listen to us, even if we know their path."

"Dad always said I'd end up in Baghdad one of these days… maybe Baghdad is more of a category of places rather than a specific place… We going to stop the JSDF?"

"Stop…. such a harsh and simple word when you put it on this. We can't stop them if they don't listen. No more than any of the "coalition of the willing" had any power over us during 2003. If history repeats, then this time we're the one going to be shotgun to this."

"Sir… you're depressing me the fuck out and I'm supposed to be on leave!"

"I'm sure you'll spring right back up Masterson."

"Well I wouldn't be good at my job if I wasn't able to."

* * *

 ** _Tokyo - Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library – Group Reading Room 4A_**

* * *

"How could one weapon end a war so horrible?" Admittedly, we had glossed past the last days of World War Two a bit fast, almost intentionally avoiding the outright why. Pina had commented earlier that it was very noble that the Japanese were willing to defend to the last man, woman, and child on their own land, and just for two tactical strikes to fully collapse the Japanese war effort, it seemed a bit fanciful, even in her position.

"The weapons which you displayed at Italica seemed fierce enough, but it didn't seem to make the soldiers stop fighting at all! And I presume you have used these weapons against each other tha-"

"Princess." Tomita had winced.

Nutt had ran a hand through his beard, holding two pairs of headsets in his hands. The miracle of VR technology and the horrors of war.

God knows I thought VR was too real when I first tried it. What would they think? What would they feel?

"You might've seen the explosives we've used at Italica, Princess, but…"

I thought it was alright when we demonstrated telephones to them, by Nutt calling me while I walked into a different room. I thought it was alright by explaining what electricity was, recalling their memories of the night life just yesterday. I thought it was alright explaining the car, by pointing out the windows and observing Tokyo traffic, on how that changed society by separating workplace and home. I thought it was alright explaining to her what six million dead meant, innocent dead, when it came to unjust rule.

I thought it was okay to explain this to her as she got emotional, trying to find some limit of our capabilities. I thought it would be fine when they both said they were prepared to learn about us, about what we had been through as a people.

I explained that we could bring people back from the dead in a way, that we lived for over a century now, that the entire world was connected and I could call someone from the other side of the world with the flick of a finger. I told her it was normal, all of this, for us.

But I did not know if it was okay, to let them experience the hellfire of the deadliest weapon we had ever deployed against the Japanese.

It was cruel, to let them know of how human history might've progressed. It would've been inhumane to let them experience what it was like to die violently.

It was one of the scenarios loaded into the VR systems, a very heavy scenario that the Japanese government had actually requested once VR tech had gotten as far as it did. Japan had become a little more aggressive in its military posturing these last few years, but their fear of a particular type of weapon, their reverence for it, had not gone away.

That had still remained, and that had still been respected with such religious reverence it scared me.

Yet I understood.

"I fear you will not understand this weapon we used, unless you see it with your own eyes."

"Why is this so different?" she went on, thinking she had found an actual barrier we had put on ourselves.

"This is the apex of all military weaponry. A barrier we care not to breach, too often." Nutt had said calmly, placing the two visor headsets before the women. "You've been talking with Doc, I've heard, that you say we can harness the energy of the stars above… This is as close as we've gotten in terms of war."

I had taken one headset and demonstrated how to put it on, it completely shielding my eyes and covering my ears, sensors along its padding interpreting my brain waves.

I took it back off, only for it to be seized by Bozes.

Tomita had stood up, startled. "Lieutenant Emerson, is this really wise?"

"Princess," I addressed her and her alone, her fingers raw and her hand writing having gotten more and more unsteady as she was overwhelmed by the human history we gave her.

The Crusades, The Holocaust, The Trail of Tears, the Lost Generation. She had known them all now, written in her language, by our ink and paper. She knew where we came from, and yet stood as the conquering heroes.

"This is the weapon that, more or less, ended all catastrophic war after it was used."

"Then it is something I have interest in: to stop war."

"Princess, let me do this alone, for not being there at Italica."

The two women, not even twenty yet, had shared an old gaze, a trusting gaze, of an Order. That's when I saw that they really had been comrades in arms, forged by training.

"You will be able to see what she does on the holograph, right here. But she alone, will feel it."

And so they both nodded, and Bozes had given Pina that same look as if she was being cast off to her last battlefield.

She put it on her hair as Tomita respectfully took her cloth hat, the holographic display syncing with the blackness she saw as the simulation booted up, subtitles and context clues in a Japanese that the two royals had not understood yet.

The world had come in light as Bozes let out a brief gasp of surprise, virtual reality taking her over.

"Don't move, just think to walk, and move your head to look."

There she was, as we saw her view in a morning in Japan, 1945.

Outskirts of a town, but not too out of it to see the first few people pass by, school children going off to be taught, workers off to the wartime factories, women sweeping the streets she was on as she got out of her chair, tricked by the foolery of VR.

It was a decidedly more familiar town, less developed, more in line to what she thought a town was, so she had smiled behind her mask as a few school children came up to her, spoke a few cute words which had caused her to giggle and crouch to meet them eye level, and have them offer her an apple for being so charming a lady.

The VR headsets of today, especially one in use by Tokyo's main library, had been state of the art, meant less for leisure and gaming, but actual experiences. The graphics were photorealistic, because the people were real to the user, the VR headset, for the lack of better words, burrowing into the mind and making the user see what they thought real was.

To Bozes, she thought these children were real, reaching out a hand as we had hurriedly pushed the tables to the side to give her space.

She literally did, not knowing how to do so in the VR. There were no handheld controls this generation.

"Think, Miss Palesti, think about using your hands."

There were three kids, six years old, white school shirts and bags, the youngest one personally offering her an apple.

"I'm trying!" she said as she laughed, the children very much wondering why she hadn't been taking the apples.

Tomita had retrieved the gloves that went with these systems for those that had difficulties, form fitting cloth that went over hands and simulated having a hand in the other world. After putting them on her, she had grabbed it without difficulty, waving the children as they went off to their day.

"Another world?" I chuckled. How obscene that statement would've been.

"No. A fake one… or rather, a memory from the past that we can relive to remember."

"Walk around Bozes, explore this town."

"What is the town called?" she asked, forgetting about why she put on her headset as she walked her virtual self through the streets, all the people friendly to her.

Tomita responded solemnly. _"Hiroshima."_

* * *

 _ **Tokyo - Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library – Second Level**_

* * *

Lelei had been a very smart girl. Smart enough to know how to hook up a laptop all by her lonesome to a power outlet, connect it to wifi, and to start downloading gigabytes and gigabytes of college textbooks and various other historical materials as she sat in the corner of the well maintained place.

All these books, freely available. She would be lying if it hadn't brought her to watery eyes. All this knowledge so openly available and so easy to access once they were on this laptop. Bannon had been more than willing to teach her how to fully take advantage of the piece of technology too.

With great power came great responsibility, and with that, she had brought up a Wikipedia page, in English, about the motto of the force that was now occupying a town she had now jointly controlled with Myui.

She said the title of the page on her tongue again and again in her least knowledgeable of the two new languages, even as she had heard Bozes scream a level up: the great clattering of machine and the opening of a door, begging for fresh air as she clawed at her face as if it was melting.

 _"Semper Fidelis."_

Oddly enough, it seemed a very familiar to the structure of the Imperial language. She made no note of it as she saved the page and waited for her downloads about Quantum Mechanics to finish before she went up stairs.

* * *

 _ **Tokyo - Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library – Group Reading Room 4A**_

* * *

How easy was it to explain Imperial Japan to them, Emerson had realized. It was half of the name, and more or less the same agenda: to grow, to break off from the world and control it from their island nation.

How familiar it must've been to them, to see the shops, the less advanced, less scary techniques that a wartime nation employed to keep up, of a beautiful nation and a beautiful town that they could see the empire having one day. She was able to fully explore Hiroshima, fully alive with people, Japanese people, going about their day.

How scary it was to Bozes then, to see it all disintegrate as she walked from a school house to the street, and heard the defining sound of a weapon that vaporized air itself, to see people disintegrate and have their shadows remain as their only trace, to have that giant wave of pure visceral hotness come at her as the fastest thing she had ever seen.

To see it all wiped away. It was a familiar feeling nowadays, but now she had seen it through the eyes of a people that had: The Japanese.

Even as she broke her finger nails, holding desperately onto the railing as everyone else followed her out, gasping for air, she had lashed out at Emerson with those broken shards: right across his right cheek.

Tomita and Pina had held her back, even as Pina's eyes were wide, unable to believe what she had just seen.

If she had thought Italica had been bad…

The man didn't recoil, but he flinched as the nails tore at his skin, drawing blood, leaving her mark. Her angry, red mark.

" _ **How could you do this to them?!"**_

"I didn't do anything!" he said as he wiped his palm across the four ragged lines on his cheek. "I didn't drop that bomb!"

 _ **"You Americans! You AMERICANS!"**_

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _" **We knew the world would not be the same**. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita. Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty **and to impress him** takes on his multi-armed form and says, " **Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.** " I suppose we all thought that one way or another."_

 _J. Robert Oppenheimer, one of the fathers of the atomic bomb, regarding the first successful nuclear weapon test._

* * *

Emerson had made a note of that word. Of how she used it like how people used it in this world. _**'Americans.'**_

"Bozes! We don't blame them for anything! Just as you will!"

Pina had looked up at Tomita, concerned. "What?! How can you say that?! How does the most deadly war justify-"

"Better two hundred thousand die, then two million." Tomita said. _**"The lesser of two evils."**_

Lelei, having appeared out of the blue, still lugging around her bought items for the day, had said something that Tomita very much agreed with. "America is as helpful, as it is destructive, Princess Lada, Miss Palesti. They were forced to do as they did."

Emerson knew that look in Lelei's eyes as the wound on his face began to run. _She knew._ Even without her being taught, she was curious enough to know. _Of course she does_ , he thought.

"We have forgiven the Americans, and the Americans have forgiven us, after all these years and we are better for it! Look outside! This might be your future too!" Tomita had motioned outside as a librarian below looked up at the crowd.

"All this technology! All this development! What use is it if it means dealing with people that could do such a thing! Where is your honor?!"

Emerson blew out strongly, saddened, even hurt. "We're all hypocrites, Miss Palesti. The least we can do, as humans, is try to be better people because of it, and at least realize that." His palm ran red. This would leave a scar, he realized.

He looked at Pina, and she didn't have the rage, but she knew what they brought now. The interpretation of facts is what people look for, not the facts itself. So wherein Bozes saw a people of great horror, Pina saw a people of great reservation, having been broken to use this weapon.

"Lieutenant Emerson, sir. I recommend you wait outside, I should be able to go through the next few decades and then we'll be done today."

Emerson held his jacket to his cheek, a bloody splotch on the sleeve where he held it. "Of course. Will you join us at Hakone, later, Don?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, rest of the squad is going out drinking tonight. Apologies sir."

"No offense taken, Nutt… I'll be waiting outside."

* * *

"What the hell happened to you?" Itami's shock to my physical injury, my right hand red with dried blood, was shared throughout any passerbys as I sulked on the corner in front of the library. Cam had been ready with a water bottle, dropping some liquid into my hands to clear it, my hand brought up to my face to clean it, even if it stung.

"Bozes went… well nuclear." I said, grimly, sarcastically.

Inside, Nutt was teaching them of the further horrors of American involvement of the world, I was sure. Comparing them to the good Japanese who abolished war, their army, nuclear offensive power. How good, they must've been to the royals, compared to us.

But they would've found out sooner or later, I thought.

They would've known about how we invaded the same god damn country three times in less than two decades. On how we definitely improved their lives by destroying it. On how Iraq and Afghanistan fell apart again and dragged Syria, Jordan, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, and Israel down with it.

On how the world blamed us for the sandstorms of Dubai, swallowing up the west's last grip on the Middle East as a refugee crisis continued for years.

On how we went back, and how we dug our own grave and laid in it.

And I knew what the moral of history so far had been, if I knew Nutt any: beware of empires. Both of your own, but also of others. They take many names, and most dangerous are the ones who claim not to be.

We knew better now, but no one would believe us.

I took Masterson's bottle of water and threw it at the wall, the contents splashing out explosively, the plastic container crumpling on the floor in that fit of incomprehensible rage.

"Captain?" Masterson asked.

"What?" I said in turn.

"I, uh, well…" he snapped out of his confusion of seeing me mad. "I got word from Colonel Andrade. You're a Captain now. Paperwork is probably back in Arnus or something…" he dragged on as I looked at him perplexed.

Itami saluted me. "Sir. Did all go well in there?"

It was about six now, time to get on one of the high speed trains to Hakone for an outing. A desperately needed outing.

"We taught them. We taught them." I said, shaking my head. In the background, the rest of my Hitman detachment came into view, Doc hurriedly going into his own tote bag and getting some bandages out, without a word the man palming the pads over my cheek.

"They didn't like what they heard?" he said.

All I could do was look at him and wait for them to come out.

* * *

We boarded the train, Risa in tow.

Palesti found me before we stopped on. With this train it wouldn't take us more than a half hour to get to Hakone.

She stuck out her hand. "I'm sorry."

It was sincere.

"Why?" I said, turning my face away, hiding the wound.

"You did not deserve it." I looked at her dead still. "… and, I was quick to make an assumption about you Americans."

"You're not the first," I drew my e-cigar, and I started puffing, the red simulated light at the end of the stick pulsing. "You won't be the last."

I took out my iPad and gave it to her. "Apple of knowledge. Borrow it for the next thirty minutes and sit with Itami, he'll teach you and Pina about anything else you want to look up and know."

She took it, she bowed, and she left me alone on the platform as the final calls were hailed and I followed. Too much happening today. Damned I couldn't smoke on this train.

I sat next to Cam and Bannon. "Captain, now, am I?" I asked, quietly.

Bannon had laughed softly. "Perhaps only in name. Doubt you have any more Rangers or responsibilities waiting for you, on the other side."

"Captain Kay's got a nice ring to it." Masterson had said, optimistically.

"We're off duty. I don't want to hear it until we're back over."

"Roger that, Jay-Kay."

Itami had passed me on the way to his seat, the man offering his hand. I took it and shook tiredly. "Nice job on the promotion, Kristian."

"Thanks."

He had rubbed the back of his neck, unconsciously scratching his right cheek, seeing my own wrapped injury. "Sorry I wasn't there for that. Me and Masterson got distracted and, well… You know what, just, sorry."

"Oh, don't worry, Itami. You're good cop, I'm bad cop, if it ever comes down to it."

"See you on the other side?" he referred to Hakone.

"Yep."

And the train went on into a setting sun.


	14. 1-11: One and the Same

_A/N, supplemental: The great thing about this site is that, unlike regular publishing, you have the chance to go back in and make updates as you will for the better. As is why I removed this chapter earlier for tweaking. In hindsight writing this chapter inebriated was only half good._

 _Also, this is a prime example of how reviews affect my writing heavily._

* * *

A/N: This is also a disclaimer. For all the good I've done GATE, apparently, according to you friendly folks, I don't make miracles. Miracles freak me out. That being said, and I've talked to one of the readers about this who was concerned about why I haven't gotten a chapter out on this heated event, it's because the only way I could've actually written this chapter is drunk.

Yes. I shot back a third of a vodka bottle, 40 proof Skyy, raspberry flavored to my horror, writing this chapter out because I cannot believe I didn't opt to just have an uneventful night happen.

Because this literally has so little inherent value to the plot, the resort shootout, more or less, don't expect any literary miracles or me interpreting the author's intent for this scene better.

This A/N won't be long, because I'm still recovering from a hangover, but to those of you who commented on reassuring me on how America feels in this story. Thank you, dearly. I do my country justice by making it as it should be, sobered and wise. American exceptionalism indeed, silverbug89, Lone Gundam, inyourmind11, and everyone else who believes and sees it happening here.

Makes me all warm inside.

And for those of you who pointed out my shout out to Spec Ops: The Line, for the hell of it, yes. Captain Walker did fall into the depths of despair and tragedy, lost all of his squad, and fought a dead man ontop of the Burj Khalifa. He was a strong man, and he was able, despite it all, go home and become one of Emerson's teachers at Ranger School. Dubai is buried along with a lot of the Middle East, and if it fits my story, it fits.

If I am requested enough, maybe, just maybe, as this is my crack fic, to have Major Walker posted in The Special Region. I mean, I myself will personally show up in the following chapters as another Wilbur-esque character. And Wilbur will get the spotlight next chapter too, soon enough.

Anyway, enjoy, and I do advise drinking in this chapter.

Also forgive me about Cameron going on a tangent about the bible later and Risa commentating about Bannon having a nice ass. If I'm going to do absurd and give any sort of shout outs to the anime's fanservice, it'll happen.

* * *

 ** _Section 1-11_**

* * *

My three other Hitman elements had spent the day shopping on their own, really just, much like Lisa and Cam, hoarding up on food, non-perishables, quality of life items that made existing on deployment so much easier.

For many of us, me included, our deployment past the gate with the 7th MEU had been our first deployment. The only veteran otherwise having been Ramirez. He had been to the Middle East, fought in Korea in 2023 to finally end the Korean War, and he had been a quiet man because of it. Oldest man in the company even, but being a Ranger was in his blood so he dealt with it.

He was an example to follow, I thought.

"Strange." I said as the train made its last few turns before we had gotten to Hakone, the sky a mellow peace color outside of our windows in the train cabin.

Back in America, a few of these trains had lined the coasts and the major cities, connecting cities and people that made the trip from, for example, Manhattan to DC take no more than forty five minutes. The Chinese and the Japanese had lent America favors in creating those high-speed mag trains, same as the one that had gotten us to Hakone in no time at all.

"Strange what?" Bannon had said as she got herself off of Masterson's shoulder.

I took off the bandage from my cheek, Doc having put some ointment on it for the scar to fully form quickly. It was a ragged claw mark almost, four lines right across my cheek in thin, scabbed over designs of a woman who saw me as evil.

My fingers felt my wound as I went on. "When we were teaching the royals, they did not react like this until we had talked about Hiroshima or Nagasaki."

"You mean…?" Masterson had tilted his head.

"I mean they didn't think of anything about Manchuria, Bataan, the seven thirty first… nothing from the Japanese or us even… but when we told them about Hiroshima then suddenly we're monsters."

"Well, maybe they're keeping their tongues in." Masterson had said as he stretched out his arms. "You're gonna tell me we won't do the same once we find some horrible atrocity of their own over there? Ancient empires were always built on slave labor. Sure as shit we might see something when we go back."

"And you know what we'll do if we see it?" Bannon had said, coldly.

I flinched. "We'll resolve it diplomatically."

Always easier said than done. But there was a reason why I said that. If their Empire was built on the backs of slaves, and I saw it, and if they didn't give that up… There are fates worse than death. I know.

It was a rather empty train, all things considered, but if the Japanese wanted us to be in solitude, then the Sankai Roukaku would be a nice visit for the night. Hot springs was never something I'd raise my nose at, even as a soldier.

Itami and Risa passed me as we were disembarking. I chided the other ex-wife I knew. "You know we're splitting this visit between all of us, right?"

Risa's was so visibly shocked her glasses were knocked askew on her face. "What?!"

Itami had grabbed her shoulders reassuringly. "Kay's kidding."

"Sure I am." I answered, smiling in return as I grabbed my own carry ons, all of us carrying some sort of bag for our meager belongings and what we had bought. Harris had been more than willing to be our cargo donkey.

Station had been empty too.

"Why this place again?" Doc had said as he had scratched his neck, gently prodding my cheek and checking the wound.

Itami had grunted as we all stretched out our legs from the train ride, the refugees once again astounded, though less panicked, over this train as opposed to the metro. Bozes handed me back my tablet, thanking me with a curt bow.

If such a system was in place back in the Empire, I truly wonder how big it would've been. Territory was one thing, connecting and effectively controlling all that territory was another.

"Well, Colonel Andrade said this place was a favorite for his family when he used to live here… strange. I don't remember ever hearing about Colonel Andrade living in Hakone."

I answered as I led them off the steps. I had been here before too, actually, the inn not too far away from the station, but far enough away for the noise pollution of traffic and the train line itself to be of no factor. Walking distance.

"Sugar is a man of many mysteries. Either that or he's just old."

"Fair enough. Follow me!" Itami had yelled as he took the lead. He had been looking for the bath, as much as any of us. Given the stress of the day, the energy expended on a day of retail therapy, we had all stayed silent up until half way, Pina having found me, Hitman unconsciously forming behind me.

"Emerson." she drew my attention as I was flipping through my phone for news. China had still been clamoring for their own team to go through the Gate, as well as warning people about the Japanese woes of them expanding, citing increasing, territorial and nationalistic tensions that was not for the benefit for the world. Surprisingly a few of the EU member states had said the same.

"Yes, princess?"

"I just want to make clear my only aversion to your skin color is that it is sometimes the skin color of dark elves in our Empire. They are not the most… welcome people to us."

I looked up at the darkening sky. "I know, princess. I know. Our Romans never were one for outright racism. More cultural biases then anything. I didn't expect anything else for yours."

"So you know about dark elves?" she asked.

"Ah, I've already been told by some of the locals I look like one."

"They must've been scared, right?"

"Ah, a bit."

Itami threw his arm around me. "There's nothing to be scared about Kay here, deep inside he's just a very, very, very boring person who doesn't like manga."

I rolled my eyes. "I can be not-boring when I want to."

Loke had shrugged as she had recalled many of the squad's outings into Tokyo before Ginza. "He's a very mean dancer." Courtesy of growing up in the Bronx. Hadn't much opportunity to show in the plains and villages we had seen thus far in the Special Region, but I had something of a climber's instinct, every finger a hook, and every ledge a playground.

Shied away from calling it outright freerunning our parkour, that had sounded way too snotoy for me, but I knew how to play on rooftops and use my feet.

If Itami was full of surprises, so had I.

"Dance…?" Shino had tilted her head at me.

"Masterson!" I yelled out, the squad putting on what sunglasses they had.

"Yes sir?!" he mounted his pill like speaker onto his cowboy belt.

"Punch it!"

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **DMX - X Gon Give It To Ya (Dirty)**_

 ** _Freestyled to by Captain Kristian Ridgway Emerson_**

* * *

 _ **I put in work and it's all for the kids**_

 _ **But these cats done forgot what work is**_

 _ **(Uh-huh!)**_

 _ **They don't know who we be**_

 _ **Lookin', but they don't know who they see**_

 _ **First we gonna ROCK, then we gonna ROLL**_

 _ **Then we let it POP, DON'T LET IT GO**_

* * *

 _ **Japan - ? - ?**_

* * *

As good as a man the Defense Minister was, he had been tolerant of the Americans and their wars, but he was a groomed man of a higher pedigree, so what came out of his mouth as he and Colonel Andrade sat in the control room underneath an undisclosed was something, in hindsight, Andrade had expected.

"To think a hood rat is leading such a Special Forces unit."

The screens in that dark, metal control center had been all focused on the party of the hour: the group heading toward the resort.

The timescale was slowed because, at Itami's beckoning, Emerson had broken out into a freestyle dance routine to defend his honor/sense of fun.

He danced all the way up to the street to the mouth of the resort pathway.

Andrade shook his head. "I know we're friends, Defense Minister, but please, don't call me a hood rat."

"What-? I was referring to Hitman's squad lead."

Andrade had grit as he told the commander standing over the defense minister to sit, his gold eyes unkind. The man did without question as he knew the defense minister had made a mistake.

"For further reference, Defense Minister, I don't take those comments lightly. So please, take it back."

"Dancing up and down the street like a fool isn't special forces-"

" _ **I don't give a shit**_ if Emerson was a POG or even our best soldier. He's a good man, and he came from where I did: the streets. You take what you said back before I make it a personal insult to me."

Colonel Andrade had been a man in his position because he had seen Korea fall apart, he had fought the Old Wars from his F-15E and saw the horror and the need for soldiers to be human first. Grew up in Compton first, and, some say, had fought in wars beyond human comprehension that were kept so deeply under wraps this might've not been his real name.

Following that, humans had rights, respect, that they needed to be shown, and he would have that for his own.

The snarl on his face toward the Defense Minister, it was justified as the man widened his eyes and gulped, Emerson's dance stopping as they got the dirt path leading to the resort.

"I- I'm sorry." he throated as the VIP escort operation had started. Japanese SOGs assigned to protect all the VIPs for the night.

Emerson clacked his jaw together and settled back into his seat.

The hidden cameras set up by the hidden soldiers suddenly not so hidden as the soldiers walked down the path, the Defense Minister giving an audible gasp as to why the group had stopped half way between the street and the resort.

All things being said. Maybe Emerson had been his best man.

* * *

 _ **Japan – Hakone Mountain - Sankai Roukaku**_

* * *

Jaws had dropped as anyone who hadn't been an American had seen Emerson freestyle, the sweat on his brow as he somehow levitated to his two feet from being on his back staying words, Lelei even quietly surmising he had been some sort magician himself given his control and flow.

He had shrugged as the squad all clapped for him, making his way down the path, a little something called bragging rights intensifying his senses as he explained to them the difference between the type of dancing the Romans had done to something a little more urban.

It was with that heightened state that he had seen past Itami's head, into the brush forestry that surrounded the path, and saw the oval of human flesh and eyes through a balaclava suddenly dip down into a bush.

Hitman had seen Emerson's click as his smile turned into a neutral and his hand go for his holster, rushing into the forestry, Hitman forcing everyone else down as the handguns were drawn, Masterson going into Tomita's coat and drawing his own back out.

The ruffling of bushes right in front of him had been a panicked move from a man who had not expected to be seen, not fast enough to dash away as Emerson dove through the bush and onto his chest, squatting down and wrapping his legs around his neck, hammer thumbed down on his M45 and shoved into the forehead of the Japanese Special Forces Group member. His other hand had ripped his balaclava up and went for his M4SOPMOD he had dropped, not particularly caring if this man was JSDF.

He felt a suppressor poke at the back of his head as hands went around his sides, almost tugging, but not soon enough to get him off the man as Harris, as QB's do, throttled the man to the ground. Hard. The sound of something breaking, almost like a branch, had resounded with the man's scream.

The handful of silhouettes that emerged from the forest to try and get Emerson off of the SOG member had been all tackled by Hitman as they went into the bushes with their captain, even if one had drawn a stun stick.

Doc had his M45 in his right hand as he confronted this man in particular, pushing the man center of his chest with his left palm. Normally this wouldn't have tripped the special forces member up, but the M45 was pointed down to the ground, the sudden discharge of one .45 round shocking the man off balance as the shot harmlessly went into the ground at his feet, Doc's black shoes on his neck as Bannon stopped a SOG from drawing his pistol, holding his hand on his hip even as it grasped the holster, a punch across his head bringing him down. However a knife had gone out by the same man with his other hand and pressed against her neck.

Rory had appeared, her halberd's cover to the wind as she brought the blade down in the middle of the group, having been depraved of a fight for several unbearable days. Being next to the Americans 24/7 still had its effect on her, Chuka having broken open the container on her compound bow and shouldered it like it was old hat, every going into the bushes as subduing, just by having the element of surprise, Japan's finest.

Granted the SOGs weren't supposed to fire back, but their reactions hadn't been friendly at all, and the fact they were there had been unexplained to Hitman and RCT3.

Masterson had ran his SOG operator against the bark of a tree before slamming him down onto the ground, Loke's pistol whip drawing blood as she kicked her SOG member off of her.

Their headsets had come alive as Emerson's iPhone had started ringing.

It was from the same source as the SOGs started sputtering incomprehensible Japanese.

"Itami!" Emerson yelled, tossing the man the M4, he shouldering it as Lelei and the Royals stayed behind them. However he had kept its barrel down. He recognized these men all too intimately. He reached out and pressed a hand on Emerson's shoulder, dragging him off, that hand returning to the man he had mounted, pulling him up as the two shared a conversation without words.

 ** _"Senpai."_** Itami whispered.

 ** _"Lieutenant."_** They said with hushed words, Itami raising his gun to the Americans, waving them off.

"They're SOGs!" Masterson had yelled as he ripped his man's shoulder patch off of him, a golden parachute and wings denoting the identification. Very carefully Hitman had dismounted their trapped would be protectors, even as one man cried out in pain after Harris got off of him.

" _ **You broke my fucking arms you pigs!"**_

They were outfitted as special ops hardmen, and yet they were beat up by a bunch of vacationers, roughed and bloodied as their headsets kept on ringing, Emerson having grabbed the leader's headset as they all wearily backed off, their primary weapons seized by Hitman and RCT3.

Shino had narrowed her eyes at them. _**These are our fucking special forces?**_ She thought.

"Archer! Archer! Please respond." The buzz of the leader's headset had been constant as Emerson finally picked it up, rubbing dirt off of his neck.

"What is your status?" the woman on the other side asked as Emerson silenced his phone, even if he saw Andrade calling. He raised his gun up at the SOG member, other hand putting a finger to his lips for silence, however Itami had for once been defiant in his stance, making the Rangers all holster and back off at a polite gunpoint.

"Hitman Actual. Go ahead." he said simply to the Japanese operator on the other side.

"Wha-"

"Hitman Actual to any Actuals on the other side. Please confirm status. Picked up JSDF SOGs in possible ambush positions around us. How copy? Over."

Itami had stepped forward with his decked out M4, telling the men to back off as Loke and Doc got in position behind them, guns put away.

There was little times where Itami had raised his weapon. He always had judgement like that. But when he had put his back to the SOGs and spoke for them, silently, it was probably in the good judgement of the Rangers to back off.

* * *

 _ **Japan - ? - ?**_

* * *

The Defense Minister and his SOG liason officer had stood there unbelieving of what they saw through the hidden camera. Of how fast Hitman had found the SOGs out, and of their mistake of neglecting to tell the party of their over watch tonight.

They were also surprised at how useless the SOGs had been when jumped on.

Andrade bit back a laugh. "You underestimated them, Defense Minister." they were all visible through the thermals, the SOGs stripped of weapons as Emerson had phoned in, Andrade casually making his way to a console behind him as the woman operator was at a loss of what to do.

"This is Godfather. Reading you loud and clear Hitman Actual. Over."

"Hitman Actual. Godfather, what's up with the Japanese special forces creeping us? Over."

"Well… let's just say that the Japanese government wanted an insurance policy. Over."

"On what?" Emerson asked as he had held the radio up to his mouth, the cameras catching it. The guns were slowly lowered as the SOGs came forward a bit.

"Protection from external and internal threats."

Emerson squinted at the word "internal" but the cameras hadn't been able to pick that up. He holstered his pistol as the man with the broken arm tried to shove Harris away, only to be shoved back to the ground painfully.

"Proceed as planned to the resort, Captain. These men never existed. Out." Godfather had left his man on that note as the defense minister started rapidly talking Japanese angrily to the liaison officer.

The man was not happy at all.

* * *

 _ **Japan – Hakone Mountain - Sankai Roukaku**_

* * *

I had thrown back the radio and the headset to the leader, Itami reluctantly returning his M4.

"You heard the man, we never saw you." I said as an officer, standing there defiantly. They got the point, their shame covering any kind of resentful aggression they had otherwise. They had blended back into the trees as we had gotten back on the path.

"The fuck was that, Lieutenant Itami?" Bannon had said as she had wiped the spit off of her knuckles on her jacket, flicking the safety on her M9A3.

"Don't know but…" he had moved his hands, open and closing, missing the feel of a firearm in them. "I recognized that man."

"What!?" Shino had almost screamed.

"That was third platoon, and that man was my drill sergeant during training." he furrowed his eyebrows as he put his palms flat and made it go up and down, telling us to holster our weapons, Chuka doing so almost immediately.

Masterson had started chuckling as he had drained the combat high out of him, laughing it off. "And you pointed a gun at him. Great. You even?"

"..." Silence was his answer. He having been a bit unnerved that the Americans had been so easy to jump on allies.

Loke had still held onto her .45 my squad having trained to surround the VIPs in a circle, our backs to them.

"What is the matter?" Pina had asked as the royals stood defiantly, all of us scanning the woods around.

"Just a mistake, a misunderstanding, princess." Doc had said as he took off his suit coat. Man looked like an honest to good doctor in his black suit pants and white button up shirt and tie. Or maybe as Masterson had said, Lex Luthor.

"Hitman." I addressed my squad by callsign, and they had responded accordingly.

"Yes captain." I rose my hand out flat, and pointed it down the road. Clear the house before anyone else got there. "Masterson, on trail position on these guys."

"Roger."

"Move out."

And so, perhaps a bit boastingly with the eyes of the Japanese SOGs on us, we had rushed forward to the steps of that feudal looking resort, steaming coming from its open air baths. Loke and Doc had stacked up on the front door as I fell in behind Loke, Bannon going right of the building and Harris clearing left.

Two stories worth of aggressive house clearing later and Itami and the rest of the group had showed up on the steps as I hung out of the second story window of this homage to olden Japanese architecture. Place was as much as a stereotypical bath inn as anything. Not if our ripping out of and covering of the hidden cameras had done much to it.

"We're clear!" I said, a can of Coors in one hand, thumbs up in the other.

Masterson had immediately thrown off his clothes and gun and came running.

Itami and the rest of the group had been quick to follow.

* * *

 _ **Japan - ? - ?**_

* * *

"How the hell did they know?!" The Defense Minister had been raving as a certain CIA Agent from Yokota had joined Colonel Andrade.

"Emerson knows the place inside and out. Andrade and his family use the resort for themselves and thus, some of the officers do so as well... he doesn't exactly know it's JSDF property however… sorry about that." Mitch had simply stated as he glided in silently, finding a seat as he lit a cigarette.

"But how could they even find the cameras?" the Japanese Defense Minister had asked.

"Please, Mister Defense Minister. If it's what we'd do for the VIPs, it'd be what you'd do." Mitch said, Andrade comfortably greeting the man.

"But don't you understand this might jeopardize the-"

"You have seven special forces operators directly in contact with them and another three teams of SOGs on station to assist and observe. Cameras are the least of your concerns, Defense Minister."

"Well six of them are American!"

Mitch and Colonel Andrade leaned back into their seats at that, their mouths a thin line.

" _ **So what?**_ " Andrade had said as the operators in the back were handling a medevac of two of the SOG operators.

Mitch had given the man a glare, daring him to say something. Between Defense Minister and CIA spook, Mitch had won the stare as the man sat back down and dropped his challenge. "They're on vacation. Best to leave them in a comfortable state back over the Gate."

* * *

 _ **Japan – Hakone Mountain - Sankai Roukaku**_

* * *

"Had cameras in here too," Loke had remarked as they had stripped down to shower, Bannon's eye all to see as she had joined all the women for a soak in that wonderful hot springs: another technical marvel to the otherworlders. Turning a lake into a hot bath of such luxurious feel, it was almost unfair to all they were partaking in these amenities on the government's dime. "Took them out though."

Rory, still groaning over the fact she hadn't been able to immediately dive in, had been staring absent mindedly out the window as the rest of the bigger women had cleaned and washed down.

She pouted. Didn't see anything outside. She was often one to get a kick out of voyeur.

"You got any idea why you Japanese would want to spy on us?" Bannon had said, running over her scars with a sponge. She really couldn't feel much from them anymore.

Risa had gave off some sarcastic grin as she wrapped up her hair in a towel. "I could think of a few reasons…"

"They want to keep us safe." Lelei's to the point answer was somewhat agreeable to Bannon's ears, closing said window that Rory had been staring outside of. "Or maybe collect information on us."

The hole in the wall where Loke had torn out the particular spy camera, no bigger than a pen embedded in wood, had been vacated now, she proudly standing naked in front of it, taunting it. "Well fuck that."

What they would've seen if that camera was still there would've been a palate of general body types of a myriad of fairly healthy women. Albeit very illegally seen if that was the case. Being in the military often kept one healthy, even as Loke had given a curious sideways glance of disbelief as to how Shino had been able to deal with what she had been given.

The two Americans shared a glance. The general absurdity of being stripped down naked with an elf, royalty, and a demigod in preparation for a hot springs dip had been almost absurd as sharing the facilities with men during Ranger training for the two of them. But they got over it and whatever misconceptions and misgivings they had real quick.

"Just enjoy it, Talia, while it lasts." Bannon had lamented as she ran some water into her newish eye, some red being washed out as she fluttered the lid. "Goes for you too, Princess, Miss Bozes." she said in her usual raspy tone, observing how they had been playing with the faucets that had given up hot or cold water on a whim in the steam.

The Princess had uttered something of a pleasured tone. "We'll try, Bannon."

"Serious." she had muttered. "A good shower is something you should enjoy. Damned if I know when the next time I can enjoy something like this."

Loke had come up behind her and gathered her hair into the towel, placing it on her head and wrapping it appropriately. "You should grow your hair out more, sergeant. It fits you better than being borderline bald."

"Do you mean to say that I look nice?"

"Sergeant Masterson is not one to lie." she giggled, the royals, Shino, and Risa all leaning in upon hearing.

" _Oooooooh_. Is there something going on, Lisa?" Risa had said, all too curious, her mind full of her work.

There was something of a reluctant pur in her voice that she was viable to do. As a child, she used to hum when she was happy, as her parents had told her. It was a habit she kept today, even with a ruined voice that made that humming sound like a pur.

"I'm not one for gossip."

"Nonsense!" Pina had sprang up, her towel left behind as she stood. "There's no shame in a little talk here and there!"

Bannon's eyes had widened as the princess was basically demanding for her to spill the beans. Women talk, as she understood it.

"Let's dip in first, alright?" she said frantically, fleeing from the shower as fast as she could, a bucket of ice and Blue Ribbon at her side.

Loke had raised an eyebrow at the sergeant, a small smirk on her face, remembering that Bannon, for all her quirks and nail on blackboard qualities, she was still human.

"She's got a nice butt, doesn't she?" Risa had said as she had basically shrieked down the hall, having accidently ran into one of the men and running off, still naked as the day she was born.

"Yeah…" Chuka had affirmed.

* * *

It was a time tested fact that men took much less time to wash up then women, as Masterson explained as to why Bannon had only now just dipped herself in while all of the men had already been relaxing for ten minutes or so after all their stuff was packed away for the night.

Doc had rested his feet on one of the underwater steps in the male designated spring as he raised an eyebrow at that. "Yeah, well, none of that explains why she was running out completely naked away from the girl's wash."

"Maybe she really needed to get in." Masterson shrugged as the six of us guys had lined the hot spring, certain wounds and callouses of mine stinging after I had dipped in. "Maybe she just wanted to flaunt what she got."

"Oh, trust me, Sergeant Masterson, ain't nothing me or you haven't seen before."

Masterson defensively kicked a wave Doc's way as Harris and Tomita, big and sore guys as they were, took in the massaging feeling of the hot. Certainly alleviated our pores and cleared our heads.

"Yep… this is great." Itami had moaned out as a wet towel was over his face in his lounging. "No women or anything."

Masterson had laughed in his ever present endeavor to never shut the fuck up. "What, you can't get Kay into anime, but he can turn you gay?!"

Tomita had wearily inched away from his lieutenant.

Itami had sprung to life and thrown the towel off. "Don't get the wrong idea!"

I blew into my e-cig lightly as I let the scene pass. "Ain't nothing wrong with being gay. And I ain't gay."

"You're a third." Masterson was having this time honored discussion between us again. Of sexuality and something purely a man on man topic.

"Yeah, and what's the other two thirds?"

"Straight."

"And what do you call someone who's both?"

"Gay." I took Itami's towel and snapped it at the man, he ducking under the water before coming back up with a vengeance, trying to bring me down under.

"Jesus Christ! The man who's trying to wrestle naked and wet is the one who's not gay?!"

As Emerson and Masterson wrestled underwater, all the rest of the men could do was watch. "You know, I've been told Emerson graduated top of his class at West Point." Harris had said to Itami as they watched two best friends wrestle, regardless of what was touching what.

Itami had nodded as he looked at the two not a few feet away. "At only twenty five… Damned if I feel old around all you folks."

Doc had popped open one of the cans of Coors, passing them about to the men still above water. He was around the same age as Itami. "Nonsense, lieutenant. You barely look a day over twenty seven."

"Well, you see, here you have a Special Forces Ranger Officer be held to the same measure as me, and he wants to be congressman one day while me…." Itami had spited.

Harris had shotgunned his beer fast. He did play college ball. Emphasis on college. "We all have dreams, lieutenant. If life, as you said, is everything we do in between eating, shitting, and sleeping, I have to say we are living a dream right now."

"Still, the Special Region is certainly putting a hamper on how I want to live my life…" Itami groaned, falling back into the sink.

Masterson had risen up with his captain in a choke hold. " _ **Motherfucker**_! You're living in an anime right now! Seriously!" Emerson had reversed Masterson onto his back into the water, the two disappearing below the water again.

Doc had taken a sip from his beer. "Man's got a point. I don't watch anime but… magic, elves, fairy tale characters, princesses… I say that's as close to a real life anime scenario as we're gonna get. Personally I've been drinking more and more in private just to deal with this shit is happening." he said as he blasted back the drink. It would be his only one tonight.

"I mean, if I told my drill sergeant that I'd be fighting dragons, I'm pretty sure I'd be discharged due to mental illness." Harris had said. "But… then again, before the Iraq War the Marines used to put out these TV ads with Marines fighting dragons…"

Emerson had reemerged from the deep, red as his skin was going to let him be, Masterson over his head; his arms and legs held back like a pig tie.

"To fighting dragons?" Itami had gotten a can and raised it.

"To fighting dragons." they returned.

"Say uncle you _**whisky tango son of a bitch**_!" Emerson yelled.

* * *

 _ **"No pull harder! I bet you like this shit you Oklahomo!"**_

The splashing and continuing yelling on the other side of the divider between female and male springs.

Bannon had kept her pinky out even as she finished off that one can and finished her story. "And that's the deal between me and Cam'… any questions?"

"So you are closer to Cam than that…?" Pina had pointed her thumb to the wall and what was happening behind that.

Loke, thinking her lieutenant hadn't been looking, had made a ring in with one hand a started poking her index finger through the other. Fortunately for her, she had thought right as the two princesses giggled, Bannon turning around to see nothing but Loke innocently listening.

"Captain Emerson and Cam have this dynamic: One spouts bullshit all day and the other tells him to shut up. Is all."

"How does one accept that a loved one might die in the military then?" Lelei had asked, playing around with a ball of hot water she had formed in her hand, her focus barely brought out of line with the question. Bannon had reached for another can.

"You don't think about it too often." she relented, simply, almost painfully. Of course she loved all her squad, cared for them as a squad leader should. But they weren't lovers, and she wasn't their mother.

Pina agreed with a nod. "It is for that reason that my order is not allowed to establish relationships with… people outside of our order… right Bozes?" she hugged her lieutenant from behind maybe a little too northward. "I suppose you and that big, brave, handsome soldier called Tomita won't have a chance." she said, tauntingly.

Shino had laughed as she had sipped at her second beer of the night, an eyebrow raised. "So, you noticed too princess."

"Oh, someone of my eduacation always does…" she said as she hugged her lieutenant from behind harder, to her detriment as their own splashing commenced in the hot of the springs.

"It's- It's a matter of social status and pedigree!" she squirmed as Risa looked on, very interested, Bannon and Loke hanging back and soaking with Shino.

"You know, I always had it in my mind orders like you Rangers, and maybe even this Rose Order, were all by the bootstrap, orderly things. Cutting edge men and women doing cutting edge things… and now…" the aspiring Ranger said.

"I'd rather be who I am than what you think, Shino." Loke had said, resting her arms behind her head and looking up at the stars. "Ranger is only a title. What we do with it it's up to each of us… personally I want to save people, not kill."

"I wanted to run away." Bannon had to said to the same stars. "That is why I admire Itami a bit. He's good at that, so I've heard."

"I don't understand…"

"Don't understand what, Shino?" Risa asked as the two royals wrestled, Chuka and Lelei looking on, even as she had picked the two princesses up by magic and separated them.

"For one, I don't understand why you married and divorced him." Risa backed off to her side as she fully considered the rather harsh question.

"If I told you the reason, I don't think you'd think very highly of me…"

"Try me, hun." Bannon had dared.

"I married him because he could take care of me." she said slowly, looking up at the stars as all chimed in. "I knew him from a young age, and we knew each other's families. I even knew her mother before… anyway, yeah."

"You married him just so he could take care of you?" Shino asked, incredulously.

"Itami does have a certain… magnetism to him… don't you agree Chuka?" Rory had purred.

"Huh?"

Risa licked her lips as she smiled fondly. "The Ginza Incident, it was dangerous, wasn't it?" she asked all around. Bannon shrugged, still regretting not having been there. "When it was decided that Itami was going to go to the otherside, he told me "Don't worry, Risa-kun, even if something were to happen to me, you'd have your income by my insurance, and I'll try to keep in contact with you everyday.""

Risa dipped her cheeks below into the water, her glasses steaming.

"You still love him?" Rory asked.

Her answer was a smile, and a small noise in the back of her throat.

"We did have a new start, after we divorced, and ever since we found a friend like Kay…"

"I'm happy for you, Risa-chan." Bannon said, a hint of envy in her voice that Rory very much detected.

"Thank you, Miss Bannon."

* * *

When Emerson and Hitman had gone into the bushes, the people through the cameras hadn't been the only ones to see it. No. Of course not, not with all the ruckus they made, and then all the bellyaching the SOG members had done afterwards as a few of them broke formation to carry a few with a broken arms and egos out of the forest to a waiting car to ferry them to a clinic.

The undisclosed car that they had used had passed by three different spotters, unaware of each other, all staring on the edge of roads and trees into the forest and knowing what had stood between them and the prize of people from another world: information, hostages, data. Whatever their goal, it all brought them to the same place.

With a radio message, a phone call, a non-verbal hand sign later, former North Korean operators turned Triad soldiers, Russian Mafia, and Yakuza members had all gone into the forest at different points, unknowing of each other.

The Japanese SOGs didn't even know what hit them as they were diced, punctured, shot, and silently dealt with to pieces as they were expecting a different, more national enemy.

The hidden in the cameras in the tree were all slowly passed on to a fake imagery, courtesy of one of the Yakuza with the technical know how of surveillance, that command center beneath Japan cut off, held unknowing, as the three different groups slowly crept forward into that deep brush, and waiting for a time to strike and to claim what the Japanese would not in a million years allow them the chance to grab after tonight.

The SOGs were expecting, in the back of their minds before they were decapitated by swords and knives, maybe special forces from Russia and China, or maybe even America. What they got was something much more illicit. War is never fought politely, the SOGs found out too late as their bodies were stripped of gear and scavenged from.

Though China, Russia, North Korea, and even a few former Americans turned Russian Mafioso were there, representing their nations, there was no better motivator to the drawing of blood than self-interest.

"They tell me that big Harris man is here too. Should we do anything about it?" One of the Yakuza members had said as they stripped a flak vest from one of the SOG members. Harris had made some enemies around Tokyo, courtesy of his visits to certain "cafes".

"We'll kill them all, regardless. His bounty is just a bonus."

* * *

 _ **Japan - ? - ?**_

* * *

"Rather quiet night tonight… why are the SOG teams committing radio silence?" Mitch had said as he burned through another cigarette stick.

The Defense Minister had twinged one eye as he looked at the satellite feeds, and the images they showed: all of the SOGs in the forest, highlighted by IFF and by thermal telemetry standing as still as statues in position, no reports to be had.

"Probably nothing." he said.

Mitch had shook his head. "I was there on the ground at Benghazi, you know, Defense Minister. I remember this looking distinctly like what was going wrong back then."

"The SOGs are highly capable. If there was something to report, there would be something to report."

Mitch and Andrade hadn't believed the Defense Minister at all, and so, silently, they had checked the USFJ's own security cameras.

* * *

 _ **Japan – Hakone Mountain - Sankai Roukaku**_

* * *

Itami had writhed on the ground on our sleeping space after we had returned from a quick bite from the dinner, stocked in the fridge on the house. "God dammit god dammit god dammit! I want to stay here until New Years! Fuck my job!"

Three beers in I hadn't lost anything in my coherences to understand Itami. "You know they need us over there, Itami." I said as me and the male portion of my Hitman detachment had put on sweatpants. We weren't the kimono type, Masterson simply keeping his constrictor shorts on to most of our visual detriment. He was used to sleeping in almost a bare nude.

"I knowwwwww." Itami dragged on.

Maybe a discussion was about to happen regarding if we were really needed over there, if what we were doing was right and all that moral intricacies we had to dance around on a day to day basis, but it was eleven o'clock, and Shino and Rory had barged into our rooms fast enough for us to almost draw, Bannon behind them with a disappointed look on her face. They, minus Bannon in her tank top and boxers, had been dressed in kimonos.

One whiff and I smelled the alcohol.

"Lisa, are you…?" I asked.

"I'm fine." she said simply, Doc walking over and shining a flashlight into her good eye.

"Yep." he could tell. As for the two other girls who looked at all the men angrily…

"You men! Come with us!" Shino had yelled, we really having no choice but to follow, Bannon nodding to affirm.

When we got into the girl's room the elf was passed out, a fifteen year old was drinking sake, a loli getting hammered with scotch, and Bozes who immediately flared some of her cleavage to Tomita, which Pina had responded by throwing a pillow at him.

Loke too had been under the weather, having drunk herself down, her hair cascading over her young face and covering it.

"There are like, twenty five things wrong here." Masterson had said as he stepped in, his tactical evaluation not incorrect. "One of them is that I'm not drunk."

Bannon had pulled on his arm. "Nope."

"Commander!" Shino yelled to the punctuation of a bottle of vodka hitting the floor in front of her.

"What is it?" Itami asked groggily.

Her answer came in a thundering, vodka stenched roar. "PLEASE INTRODUCE ME TO SOMEONE IN THE SPECIAL FORCES GROUP"

"Uhh, why?" the lieutenant asked again.

"I WANT TO GET MARRIED."

I was led to believe people's deepest wishes and truths come out when the drink came over, so I was inclined to believe that Shino actually wanted this as much as Bozes had wanted her personal bodyguard: Tomita.

"Most of us special forces are single, right?" Bannon had pondered aloud. Four in Hitman were married to my knowledge, Harris, Ramirez, a Hawaian former life guard by the name of Mia Sanders, and then Tracey.

"THEN THERE SHOULDN'T BE A PROBLEM! MASTERSON! LET'S GET MARRIED!" she bust open her yukata before Cameron could protest.

"Ah- well. Wh- What else do you bring to the table Whopper Deluxe?" Masterson tore his eyes away as me and Itami had long did when Shino exposed herself, looking behind into the hall or up at the nicely curated ceiling.

"SOMEONE LIKE ME WITH REAL COMBAT EXPERIENCE WOULD BE THE PERFECT WIFE FOR YOU! I'LL HEAL YOU WITH THESE AFTER LONG MISSIONS!" I could only deftly imagine what she was referring to with 'these' as I had turned around and looked into the dark hallway.

Cameron gulped as he looked back over just once, Bannon's lips curling in sober annoyance.

"Sorry, Sergeant Kuribayashi. I'm just not into- well, I am, but- uh, well." Cam stuttered, two parts of him fighting. Sure, he had bit back some booze, but not enough to really consider what this girl was offering him in any seriosity. Tempting as it was.

"I'LL FIGHT SERGEANT BANNON FOR YOU." Kuribayashi had deduced, even drunk, rising from the floor with a punch toward her senior and her apparent competition. Woman had missed the first blow however, hitting Itami square in the jaw, the man crumpling on the floor as she had gone past him with hardly any balance or clothes I had realized.

"The hell do you mean by that?" Bannon had asked, half way serious, half way unbelieving this was happening.

"Oh you know!~" Shino's slurred speech and walk had made her stumble out of the hallway door to one of the sanded areas meant for volleyball.

"Right. You go deal with that. I'll get the adolescent to stop drinking and see if Itami's not in a coma." Doc had bowed out as he went back into the woman's room, Pina immediately trying to get an embrace out of him, which he did return. I personally always thought Doc and his twitchy self-needed a hug every now and then. Harris had closed the door behind him, dismissively heading back to the men's sleeping area.

"Night Brian." I waved him off as we all looked at Shino stumble around, naked as day in the night basked volleyball court on the inside of the inn, her slurs wanting very much to beat the shit out of Bannon.

"She doesn't mean it." Bannon had more than surmised as we all pocketed our hands and looked on.

"Should we…?" I dragged my words as I tried to concentrate on having this girl keep her dignity.

Masterson had flubbered on as he awkwardly hid behind Bannon sheepishly. "I mean, I understand about the refugees and the Royals getting drunk. Probably the most refined alcohol they ever had in their lives, but Shino…"

"CQC alright with you captain?" she asked me. This needed a woman's touch. Not that I would've allowed a man's touch to this situation.

"Permission granted."

Bannon had darted out onto the volleyball field like a soldier should've, Shino's warped sense of time making her first punch toward her slow and missing by a landslide. It through her body off so badly Bannon stomping on her ankle and hauling her off her feet, over her back, and onto her's on the sand in a thud having been child's play.

"Thanks Lisa." Masterson half mocked, half actually thanked.

"No problem Cam."

The slight yell Lisa had given off as she hauled the shorter girl over her back to carry had been strained, but still, she had her own grievances. "One day we're gonna have to kill this woman if she keeps acting her sadistic ass up."

"Let's keep our guns pointed at the eminent enemy first, Bannon."

"Yes sir."

* * *

By the time Itami had woken up, and Doc had given a quiet report to the three token Americans while they blew smoke and wind out on the front patio, it was well into the following day technically. But they were restless, as Rangers were, sitting, leaning on the wooden construction of this building as we stared up at a white moon.

The combat medic had returned to the room and they promptly heard him hit the floor, sleeping, presumably.

Still had to see it to believe it.

Still in their slow pace they had missed most of the context of what they saw when they walked in:

Rory had been drinking throughout the night, she hadn't been one for sleep for the last nine hundred years. Spent in fact, her first hundred years on a complete binge of being awake and just straight up slaughtering the bandits of the desert. Sleep was more than just a replenishing of the strength however, of the mind, it was moreso to clear one's shoulders for the day and momentarily forget who they were. However in a few decades, Rory had been more than aware that was going to happen anyway.

She had her share of sleepless nights lately as Itami groaned, sitting up after the Doctor had left.

Most of them lonely, she pointing a slow finger at Itami and beckoning him to come over.

"It's a real shame." he said as he walked over.

"Huh?

He sat across from her as they both looked out into the moonlit night. "Isn't the body of a demigoddess fixed? I am curious as to what you would look like as an adult."

She shook her head as her small fingers kept around the glass. "That's not true. When I ascend to godhood, I can choose any form I wish… but in exchange I will loss the cravings and pleasures of flesh." she said sadly, a bit of the alcohol pushing her.

"But so will you lose all the disadvantages?"

She went to answer, but she clenched her legs. "Nng."

"Huh?" Itami had looked dumbfounded as she got flustered, pouring himself a drink.

"The Americans are coming." she said, struggling. "They're so- so… intoxicating." she breathed out raggedly.

" _Nani?_ " Itami had backed up in his seat as the girl had approached him like a snake intending to sin.

"They're so close, I can feel it. Their souls are permeated with an unquenchable thirst… the same as mine." she had put out her palm on the thirty three year old's chest, cold by the grace of ice and scotch. "Do you know how I can quench that thirst, Itami?"

"Ay- what do you mean?!" he yelled as a whisper, the girl ever so unceasingly coming onto him from her seat, her glass left behind.

"Oh you, know, they have videos of it in our room. We all just watched it before you men came into the room."

* * *

"Три американцы только что переехали ! Идти!"

"这三个美国人只是感动！走!"

"アメリカ人はちょうど移動します!"

In the vernacular of English, the three different languages of the three different criminal syndicates had all said the same thing as they saw the three guard dogs that had been Hitman move off of the front porch momentarily. Needless to say language and commands wouldn't be the only thing that crossed that night.

* * *

Rory's pushing had silently moved the chair back and Itami to the ground, barely making a peep as her hand had slowly went south, despite Itami's protests.

"Let's leave this aside! There's something about child protection laws and-"

"You see me as a child, Itami?" she said as she sat on him, hand going ever further south. "Does this feel like a child?"

"You look like one to society! Plus I have an ex-wife! Right there!" he protested, to no effect.

In the spans of seconds the man had, in a thousand emotions, thoughts, that had told him a thousand wrongs about what was happening, he had realized if they went any further, a carnal sacrifice on his part would've happened. All his sense of duty as a soldier, a man, and a law abiding citizen trying to tear away.

"Oh~ That society isn't here right now."

Her hands had found her mark as Itami had yelped in his throat, jumping as his hands were petrified over the girl, unable to do anything seeing as she, perhaps not in the most eloquent of descriptions, had him by the balls.

"Too bad we are here right now, hun." Yanking her hair back hadn't been Bannon's way of saying that apparently her and her fellow Americans had been aphrodisiacs, but she had moaned in pleasure as that happened, even as she was pulled onto her back in a thump, the three Americans giving the demigoddess a quite angry look.

"You're gonna give me a reason why I shouldn't spank your ass six ways to Sunday, missy." Masterson had grated as Itami gave a panted breath, having been saved as he downed the last of the scotch in relief.

"Is that an invitation, Masterson?" she purred as he had just realized what he said and what they were to her.

Bannon twitched her bad eye at her. "Even if you are nine centuries old, you should know in turn you're the one fucking a child, Miss Mercury." she pointed at Itami. "No hanky panky or I swear to god I'm gonna beat someone tonight." her voice had risen, the inherent violence of her raspy tone there, but seeing as everyone was out cold drunk, it was no matter.

Rory had laughed, but Emerson grabbed her by the collar and lifted her up. " _ **Not appropriate. Cut this shit out.**_ "

The fear of God, or rather, Emroy was in her pupils as she was suddenly lifted off the Earth. No mortal had ever held her like that with such ferocity, she realized.

And yet these people dared. For a woman as old as she was, and a person as young as Itami in the span of things, whatever was happening on this side of things had looked like rape.

Before she could give off a sarcastic quip she was dropped to the floor, stumbling, falling on her ass.

Itami's phone rang.

"…Yes Defense Minister?... what do you mean we've left the resort?" He looked at the three Americans that were up, putting his phone to his shoulder. "Hey, someone says that he can't see any of us by the cameras outside, can you guys go out to the front patio and check it out?"

"If you keep her under control, yes."

"I'm sure if you guys go away she should calm down." Itami had said, Rory pouting like a child as she turned away from the Americans.

"Right, oscar mike." Emerson had said as he left the sore demigoddess and the all too awake lieutenant, having returned to his phone to browse a manga catalogue.

* * *

We had returned to the front porch, standing outside as they looked around for any of those cameras. Dealt with the ones inside, but not out, figured those Japanese SOGs would be ontop of the situation.

"I mean, but is it _legal?_ " Masterson had been perplexed by the rather twistedly perverted event that was about to happen before we had intervened, I shrugged as I blew into my e-cigar hard. I needed the relief.

"I'm not a man to question pedophilia and child protection laws, Cam. If that God wants to have his way with him, I doubt we can stop her." I said.

"I'm sure the bible here has something to say regarding having sex with children."

" _ **What the fuck**_ are you looking for in this Cam?" Bannon had said as she had flipped around her eye patch by a finger, airing out her eye, the only real sound in the night as we stood under that familiar moon, on the steps of that resort.

"Not quite sure," he said, stepping off the patio, holding the bible close to his chest. "But the thing about the bible is that, even though my parents often stayed away from documents of faith, using anecdotal evidence and comparisons to the apostles and Jesus Christ's own-"

It was the sound of a punch really, a hard whisp in the air. It was a familiar sound, but not one that I could immediately identify given the circumstances as the bible that Cam had held to his chest had spluttered out of his grip, he having been sent to the ground, immediately, moreso, aware of what had just happened as he crawled backwards towards us frantically.

It happened in the span of less than a few seconds, but my mind had finally registered what that sound was as Bannon had also been ahead of me, reaching down to grab Masterson by his collar and dragging him back into the building as I drew the .45 from my waistband and used my thumb to hit the safety quick as I had ever done.

I recognized the sound, of course I did, I trained with my MCR with a suppressor.

There it was, a silhouette, a vague trace of a man, out in the bushes, red lights of the optic staring at me. It was all instinct that I had squeezed off three shots before I had backpedaled myself hard, voice screaming.

 _ **"Contact! Contact! Contact!"**_

I banged against the wooden surface of the building as me and my two sergeants took cover against not the best cover, their own pistols already out.

"Jesus Christ!" I let my mouth say as I had stood back up and leaned, squeezing off the rest of the magazine out as the silhouettes started popping up from the forest, and returning fire in the moonlight. Whenever I shot someone, and I had been getting used to it, it was the small details I had picked out first that filled up my mind.

Men, plain clothed, masks, Halloween? Black suits, running toward us, not trained, would use cover otherwise.

Gun clicked empty as I flicked the gun right, magazine thrown and replaced, slide release hit in short order.

My trigger finger pulled as my dominant eye led my gun's sights to the level of a man wearing a gorilla mask, the plastic construction being blown away with his head as I shifted a few degrees left, my arms locked and stretched as I dumped two more rounds out in a bang.

Cam had been panting as he held the bible to his chest, but soon enough he had thrown that away and drew his .45, no wound on him as the good book had taken the shot for him.

"Tango down!" I yelled as I ducked and crouched beneath the wall of the patio, Bannon and Masterson popping up again and laying fire down range as I heard my Rangers stumble over behind us.

"Fucking hell!" Masterson yelled as return fire put shrapnel in the air in the form of wood splinters, the yells of three distinct languages over the air. "Why do I always got to do this shit naked!" he had remarked as he was peppered with splinters, only his constrictors on.

"Harris, Loke! Safegaurd the VIPs! Doc go get Itami and RCT3!" I yelled as they had crouched in front of me as the cacophony started of silenced firearms and yelling.

"Yes sir!" the three of them had tried to say over the sound of both suppressed and loud gun fire. It was when the amount of bullets actually hitting us hadn't matched the volume did we realize not all of them had been meant for us.

Masterson had hurriedly dropped his .45 magazine and replaced with another with an aggressive slide back as Bannon leaned out and saw evil, but not toward us, the forest alive with gunfire and voices.

"Listen." she said as we all cautiously made our way out to the front, the combat high having elevated our senses as we fanned out behind the decorative rocks and architecture.

"I hear Russian and Chinese." Masterson had said, going to a body he had shot down, a black suit and tie having donned this bloody form with a gorilla mask over it. He ripped it off to a man, eyes open and wide toward the heavens, a Russian face with tattoos. "I see Russian." he said as he had snapped the man's neck as a precaution, going into his pockets and pulling 12 gauge shells for the cut down double barrel shotgun he had also seized.

We had been dragging bodies back to the inn, and he followed as two further black suited men had rounded one of the resort's corners.

Japanese.

Even with a body being dragged back with my left hand I reached out with the .45 in my right, blasting them both back as the gun clicked empty, their bodies hitting the sand, Masterson covering us as he loaded the double barrel.

The sound of rampant rushing behind us had made us turn around, a machete out and to the sky as another suited man made a charge at us:

Masterson had twisted around fast enough to blow a hole in the man's chest, sending him flying back into the patio.

"Masterson! Go, clear the building!" I yelled out, dragging the body back in as I rejoined Bannon, she having scavenged an Ishapore Enfield from her dead man, aiming it out and taking potshots at contacts I couldn't see in the dark.

" _ **What the shit is happening?!"**_ she yelled as Masterson took off back into the building, the sound of .45 and buckshot flying inside of it liable to make me go insane as I asked the same question. I tore the dead man's grip from the lever action rifle he had, cut down to near pistol length as I cycled it with one hand: chambered in 30-06, this one was.

They were all plain clothed as a group of white shirted men, firing pistols and various weapons of negliable threat to us has backpedaled, a black suited Japanese man having sent a sword down through the head of a white shirt with little difficulty before he had been lit up, his face peppered with holes.

A stream of fire from us had cut down the remaining handful.

* * *

White shirts, black suits, animal masks. Chinese Triads, Yakuza, and Russian Mafia in that order.

Not that RCT3 made the distinction as suddenly windows were shattered ad they were shocked awake by the sudden rush of adrenaline.

One of the animal masked men, a peacock this time, had jumped through the window hoping to get to their objective, not counting on two other criminal groups to have shown up that night after cutting down the Japanese SOGs, but he hadn't expected for a halberd to cleave him in two before his two feet had hit the ground again, his torso falling on shattered glass as Rory got an iota of relief from her woes.

Pina had been a warrior as always, even when drunk, so the man's knife had been immediately in her hands as she and Bozes were the ones up almost immediately, Bozes taking a shard of glass in her hands for self protection as two of the Americans barged in, the two royals pointing their weapons their way as Rory jumped out of the window.

" _ **EVERYONE DOWN!**_ " Loke's uncharacteristic yelling had taken place as she had Harris had slid under the broken windows leading into the women's room and the pond full of rocks and, now, corpses.

Itami had been quick to have already gotten that point across, putting his palm on his ex-wife's head as she held her head herself, face down on the floor.

How combat initiated had been something of a cliché three way Mexican stand off, but of course it got very bloody after that as the three way stare ended almost immediately.

Loke and Harris had started opening fire downward into the now four way firefight, people in the middle duking it out with shovels, knives, machetes, and even a few katanas.

"Itami! Why the fuck am I see spec ops equipment down there?!" Harris yelled as he emptied his gun and threw the magazine at one of the Russian's heads, sending a stream of fire his way as he ducked and leapt forward from the thin cover.

Itami had raised up to answer, kicking Shino to get up, but one of the walls of the room had been brought down in a very dusty fashion as Masterson had charged through, gun barrel in the stomach of a Japanese mobster, and pulling the trigger as they hit the opposite wall.

Tomita had already punched a man's head ninety degrees, he having secured a pair of clippers, shearing it in half and having two blades for both hands.

His form didn't lend kindly to the fact a duck had gotten behind him, Bozes seizing the knife her princess had and pushing past Tomita, using the knife to deflect pick axe coming down, pushing the man down. It didn't take much effort after for her to fall and stab through the flimsy construction of the mask. When she pulled it back out the mask went with it to a grisly display as Shino had clumsily gotten up, only forced down by Masterson again as the gunfire chaotically continued.

It had gotten further grimmer as Rory laughed euphorically, an arm holding a Makarov flying through the broken window. Itami didn't hesitate to grab the gun and throw the piece of gore out, he joining Masterson as he motioned for the man to follow him.

"I've got no idea what's going on!" he yelled as Masterson whipped the gun down once, getting a chunk of meat out of it.

"Oh what the fuck! They've finally come for me!" Harris yelled as he put a bullet into another head, collapsing back below the window as Loke picked up the fire, Rory having become a great distraction as several Yakuza and Triads tried to tackle her. There was nothing to say as she was overhwlemed for just a second, a katana being forced through her as she personally pulled it back out and stabbed the unbelieving Yakuza who had done her the wound.

"I can't believe this shit!" Loke had roared as she herself had ran out of ammunition in her liberal fire from the elevated position. "And what the hell do you mean Brian?!"

"Japanese Yazkuza! I recognize them."

Rock shrapnel had gone flying as Rory's halberd through a rock in her swing at a man.

"So what?! We got criminals on our doorstep?!" Tomita had screamed over the gunfire, throwing one of his blades down the hallway as a white shirted triad had tried to round the corner, a piece of gardening equipment in his neck as he fell to the floor.

The other doorway had been pressed open, another Yakuza member trying to push through, but Pina had tripped the man coming in getting on his back and stomping on the back of his neck in a sickening crack.

"Criminals are the same in every universe!" she yelled as her own adrenaline started to pump, she always recognized the type. "Not the first time the Imperial family has had to deal with assassins!"

That hadn't brought much comfort to Loke and Harris as they ducked below the windows again, Harris racking the slide of his .45 after another emptying of it. "Oh what the hell, I might be the cause of this." he said as he wiped his large palm over his face.

"I get it Brian! You fuck the Yakuza's women in Tokyo! But it doesn't explain this!" Loke had yelled back as Harris passed her another single stack mag, only for the exchange to be stopped short because of a knife punching through the wall between them to no effect but a slight shock.

Doc had been ever present, keeping everyone's heads down, Lelei and Chuka not obeying and going to the windows with a staff and compound bow in hand, a shout in some language by Chuka having bolts from her own bag be summoned into her grip and into her hands as she drew and fired, the sound of metal bolts piercing through skulls adding to the chaos of Rory's carnage.

He had put his hand on Pina's back before forcing her and Bozes down to the ground, VIPs as they were, flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other.

Didn't do much good when a pistol wielding gunman from the Triads had burst through the wall that Masterson had kicked down, Doc immediately sprinting over and grabbing the man's gun before he fired at any of them, his white shirt already coated with blood.

Doc's thumb had caught on the gun's barrel, it being shoved up and firing into the ceiling. That wince of pain that the muzzle flash brought hadn't meant much to Doc as he dropped the flashlight to the ground and used it to draw the Triad's arms down to the floor, brought to where his feet could come up and stomp the gun out of his hands before he had released the gangster, gun brought up, squeezing off two in his chest and one in his head before he fell.

It was only then that a man had come from behind the corpse and jumped at Doc, his feet out in a flying kick that beat the man back, a knife coming down toward Doc as the man landed.

Pina had been quick to respond, kicking the former North Korean operator square between the eyes as he dropped his knife, taking it again and throwing it into his neck, Doc pulling up his legs and shooting between them on his back.

It was a chaotic situation enough that no one had noticed Pina pick up the Luger and place it along the lining of her underwear where no one would look. It was an automatic reaction upon seeing the gun, seeing it free for anyone to take. She had felt nothing of it.

That pistol had lived its history: It had been in the forests of Verdun, in the hands of soldiers come and gone to the horrors of the Great War. It had been in the hands of a police officer during the Munich Putsch, killing civilians who had backed a mad man who had tried to seize power from a broken government, and, though that particular event had failed, it had served under that mad man in the end as a Reich had risen and the police were given different duties.

It had been in the hands of an SS member in Warsaw, corralling human beings into train cars and ovens, and being used to put bullets in the back of their heads if they ran. It had been there at Seelow Heights, when its owner had choked on his own blood because of a gunshot wound to the lungs, changing sides when a Russian had picked its cold steel from cold dead hands.

It was there in Berlin when Hitler committed suicide, when an empire fell and a nation destroyed once again: resting on a bedside table as its owner had his way with the female survivors of Berlin.

It was there in Siberia, when its owner was assigned duties in the gulags, watching over political prisoners and those that did not deserve to die because of Russia's will. There it was lost to a prisoner who escaped, and made its way to an equally destroyed Japan, where certain people used the lack of order to start up their own criminal organizations. And there it remained, in usage, until today: where it fell into the hands of a Princess who wanted to not only learn from its example, but to learn from its history.

Of all the things that Princess Co Lada had learned during her library trip, one of the lessons was this: human history was a history lived down the barrel, through the sights, and under the gun.

Now she would make her own, because she had her own.

* * *

Itami had kicked a man out of the window after delivering two gunshots from the Russian Makarov he had, grabbing his eagle mask as he fell out and to the ground below in a rocky splash. For a second he thought he had torn the man's head off.

Masterson had made short work of the other thugs that had followed them up in two booms, the man having been something of a noted craftsman with twelve gauge buck.

"Triads. Mafia. Yakuza… easy enough." he had relented as he cleared his throat, picking up a Single Action Army from one of the gangsters. The guns from the olden days were easier to conceal from police apparently, as was why Bannon and Emerson were keeping the front porch locked down with a trail carbine and an Indian Enfield rifle.

Itami's own Makarov had just nailed someone in the neck as he was charging at Rory with another cut down shotgun, Rory noticing it and twisting around as she used her halberd as a bullet shield, her legs coming up and snapping the man's neck in a form of acrobatics that Masterson couldn't really believe, she rising up with that halberd of hers into the night and silhouetting against the moon, coming down and sending men and water flying.

The Japanese lieutenant smirked as he saw the sight. "Us SOF eat these guys for breakfast, eh?"

Masterson had picked up another SAA and tucked it into his underwear. Just like old times in Texas.

"Doesn't exactly explain why y'all SOGs ain't responding." he looked at the M4SOPMOD that was near one of the dying corpses, a shot from his SAA putting the man down as he kicked the rifle and a few mags Itami's way, he immediately bracing it against the second story window as he crouched down on two knees and his butt, finding point of contacts to stable himself on.

He had held this rifle earlier, he realized as he shook the thought out of his head. That drill sergeant was a bastard anyway.

"She's dangerous. Extremely dangerous." Masterson had said as he rolled the revolver cylinder's against his forearms, checking the loading gate for ammunition.

"I'm sure these assholes on the ground are appreciating that really, really well." he responded, another man decapitated by the grace of that giant purple blade.

"Well, she keeps acting up like that, one day one of us are gonna have to find a way to pull the trigger on her." he warned, leaning over Itami as he saw Shino and Tomita drop down to the rock pond, Emerson leading them with acquired firearms. "Counterattack. Should we call 911?"

Itami shrugged as he squeezed off a burst into the far forest, one of the Russians trying to provide covering fire. "Nah. Don't want to deal with the authorities if they get here."

"Christ, you're sounding like Whopper Deluxe."

* * *

Doc and Bannon had come bursting back into the women's room as Lelei and Chuka were holding down the window, some barrier magic brought up and raised appropriately as Chuka fired off her arrows.

They hauled the royals and Risa to their feet, bags already around their backs.

"We're vacating the area, now! Get your things!" Bannon ordered as she had hurriedly thumbed a few more 7.62 rounds into her Enfield. Harris and Loke going back and doing just that hastily. She had replaced to the two single handidly as she pushed the bolt back into ready. If she had at least one good eye, that had been enough. Granted she had almost incessantly glancing over her left shoulder every few seconds.

The sight notch of the Enfield had lined up perfectly with the chest of a white shirt, so she pulled the trigger and let the Enfield kick, it having no trouble scrambling the man's lungs as the pond below became host to blood and corpses as opposed to blue water and lilies.

* * *

The constant fire of my Winchester as it bucked in my one hand like a cowboy had been backed up by enough covering fire from Tomita, Shino, and Rory that I didn't give much of a damn. I was hitting my targets, or rather, what targets were remaining as we fanned out and picking up Rory's left overs as she floated up and sat on a rock overlooking us.

Shino and her picked up Kalashnikov had been dealing the damage good enough for me to start hastily loading the lever action. It was an ornate, gold encrusted piece in its designs. Gangsters tended to have such showiness. Still it was a gun and my .45 had run out of ammo.

Bannon's Enfield and Itami's own covering fire had been enough to quickly make the pond run red, staining or ankles as we pushed out further.

We weren't the type to call 911 in emergencies, but I had tried and, unbelievably, 911, or at least the Japanese equivalent, hadn't picked up.

Didn't have the time to call Godfather as a handful of Yazuka had rushed us with knives, katanas, and a few pistols, making us duck below the rocks as we looked at Rory, not doing anything, satisfied apparently.

The absurdity of combat did nothing to help us as Itami threw the pistol wielding thugs a bone and shot them. One of the Yakuza had come around the rock I was taking cover behind and raised his sword up, but my palm had come up before the sword came down, his hands flying open and sending the weapon down, getting my hands around his head and pushing it below the water.

* * *

As Emerson was drowning a man, refusing to look into his eyes as he did it, Itami had covered him further by putting a burst into a Russian who had just slashed open another white shirt, his head turning toward Emerson but doing nothing of it in time before his death.

He had no qualms killing thugs, criminals. If there was ever a black and white battle to be fought it was one that had been about the law. However, this wasn't exactly a straight battlefield or how he expected to spend his leave.

Masterson tapped his shoulder as he dashed downstairs, alerting the man he was gone as he continued the suppressive fire, the M4's stock the cranny of his shoulder, opening fire like a range. These weren't SOF or even Imperial Regulars. Just thugs.

It was a slaughtering house.

But then again, they had just come out of one in the Special Region.

That confusion, of how easy it was to kill. The anger Itami felt was absolute, if not incoherent. All he could do was put it behind the gun as he squeezed off round after round.

They were just criminals.

Masterson had pointed his double barrel at another Yakuza member, the man immediately throwing his hand ups and dropping his weapon, it clattering to the floor as Doc and Loke passed them on the way to the front patio, their bodies protectively over and escorting Pina and Bozes, Risa being carried by Harris.

"Give me _ **one fucking excuse**_ as to why I shouldn't zip your head open right now!" Masterson had said as he used the barrel to whack the man across the face, Lelei and Chuka covering him thoughtfully as the man kneeled before him. "Why are you here?!"

All the man did was pointed toward the royals and the refugees, and that was a good enough answer for Masterson as the wooden stock whacked against the man's head with a crack.

"Alright, simple enough." Doc had said as he covered Pina, her body crooked into his chest, as was VIP escort standard. "Muggers want the refugees to hold hostage, or something. Trafficking and shit like that." he said rapidly.

"And here I was thinking the Japanese SOGs wanted to take us out." Loke had grumbled, Bannon coming up on the rear and tapping on both Chuka and Lelei's head, getting them to move with her as they wielded their own weapons.

"Someone already took them out, some of these thugs got their weapons."

"Where's the Captain and the JSDF?"

"Itami's providing cover fire, Shino and Akira are going on the offensive with Kay. We head out and secure transport, hooah?" Bannon ordered.

"Hooah."

* * *

For all the pomp and power of a home invasion scenario, it never really would've posed much trouble to us. We often had to train to counter such things and against amateurs with a demigoddess, the whole thing wasn't too dangerous to us.

We chased them into the trees even, the ten meter spread between the three of us, Rory having gone ahead and leaving us comparative scraps to deal with, had been so inhumanely easy I really wondered if Shino had been dragging me in to her mannerisms as she had gunned down a polar bear and locked another Kalashnikov magazine in place, a smirk to her mouth as I looked at the SOG member's body she just walked over.

Indeed we were walking on bodies that were not of our own doing: slash marks across bodies throughout. I suppose that even SOGs could be overwhelemed when confronted with an enemy they didn't expect.

It was the same with us Rangers. Meticulous planning for a one strike mission. Any wrench thrown means a bad day for us.

I expected more from them, honestly.

I also expected more from the Yakuza that Harris had often said were hunting him.

I expected more from the Russians, whom I always had a certain respect for the Spetsnaz forces that had helped us in Syria and Afghanistan.

I expected more from the Triads, where most of the North Korean army regulars ended up as North Korea fell and was replaced by The State of Unified Korea.

But fuck, Doc had a point. I was complaining too much, almost hoping someone was hurt on our side.

A Yakuza member was playing raccoon as he raised from the ground after playing dead, a hammer being thrown at me, only to go sideways and hit my chest to little damage, the man charging me with fists otherwise. His head had snapped as I whacked across with my elbow.

* * *

Loke had taken a broken branch and threw it across the road as several motorcycles from fleeing thugs tried to flee, the men flying from their machines as they flipped over on themselves, bloody skid marks and flesh coating the hard concrete as they all slid over it.

Harris had broken a window on a van that had been starting up, the glass shattering peppering the face of a getaway driver, his body dragged out without the door being open, his torso dragging across broke shards that stayed in the frame as Harris tossed him aside.

Masterson and Bannon had been going to the survivors and shattering their ankles, to the horror of Lelei and Chuka, unknowing of why they were doing it as Pina and Bozes were ushered into the back of the van, Harris taking the wheel. Anyone who tried to go for a weapon had their hands smashed.

"Everyone want to do gangsta shit until it's time to be gangster, huh you fucking punks?!" Masterson screamed at the crawling men with broken legs, not even wasting the ammo as the firefight continued in the background, Bannon and Doc going to the railing and covering the four figures they saw through the forest: the rest of RCT3 and their captain, punching through the criminal blockade with little to no mercy.

Rory had flown over them with a ruined yukata and on top of the van softly, she having had her pound of flesh today based on how rare she had looked: blood over her very notedly as her flesh started bubbling.

Doc didn't even want to see her push daggers and buckshot out of her body as the rest of the people emerged out of the forest and over the railing, Emerson dragging a whiteshirt's body over, only to drop him on the road face first.

Itami had a bundle of the other SOG M4s in his arms, tossing them out to the Americans as they all locked and loaded proper, Masterson also stripping a man who looked his size, a scavenged suit being donned as he kept the SAAs and the double barrel. Strangely enough Bannon had kept the Enfield and Emerson had kept the lever action, Harris getting into the driver seat, Emerson and Masterson hanging off the doors as they were closed and the civilians ushered in with the luggage.

Loke and Doc had taken to motorcycles as they revved them, everyone else getting into the van as Emerson banged on the top of the white vehicle. "Ginza. We're getting out of here."

* * *

It was an emulation of how the Secret Service agents had rode the presidential limousine: Emerson and Masterson hanging off the sides of the vehicles with weapons out, Loke and Doc having taken their scavenged cycles and taken both the trail position and the frontal position as the van made its way along the coast up toward Tokyo.

Certainly told the cars we past in the very, very early morning that we didn't want to be fucked with, Harris rolling down the other window as Itami had taken shotgun.

"Kay? You said Ginza, right?" he asked, as I readjusted my position on one of the stepping guards that this van had, right hand holding onto the frame as the other held onto my lever action. It certainly seemed to be rather ornately designed and engraved. Would've been a shame to let go of it.

"Yeah. The Gate. Better off over there than anywhere we can hide." I lamented.

"We gotta go straight there?" he asked.

Shino grumbled as she stopped putting on her clothes, an M4 in her grip. "How ironic. A warzone is safest place we can be right now."

The Princess and Bozes had still been talking their language, and we had been getting used to it as a whole, but even then, the fast string of words she had put out as we had turned the corner was unable to be translated by us, Lelei talking instead.

"She says: "Does this usually happen to political leaders?"

I twitched my face once as I looked onward. "If you want to make a message, you kill the leaders. If you just want to profit, you take them alive for ransom. These criminals have no gain by killing any of you." Itami had said as I saw a black sedan tail us from a hundred meters off or so.

"You guys are the hottest personnel on the planet right now. Everyone wants a piece." Bannon had said as she had gotten to the back of the van and unlocked the back doors, just in case, cycling her Enfield to ready herself for some hard traffic control. "Literally."

"The thing about criminals is that they don't necessarily give a damn about the political or socioeconomic factors that new lands or the introductions of new characters in whatever situation they exist in. We've had thugs trying to cross the Gate for months. None have gotten through to our knowledge, but believe it or not, the people of Japan think great wealth is on your land." Tomita had said in the back with the two royals.

"Let me tell you about the Yakuza. They're always one to collect their debts, and I think it wouldn't be too unbelievable some fuck tried to get to the other side just because I'm there."

Shino had looked at the driver oddly as I waved him to a highway ramp, the black sedan pissing off. "What?"

"Long story short the Yakuza want me dead because I have a little too much fun in the red light district."

That's when the barrel from Shino went to his temple, the wide, relatively empty lanes of the highway giving the van wiggle room, even as I held on to dear life as the slight swerve happened, Harris staying under control.

"And you sold us out to the Yakuza huh?!" she yelled at our driver as I flip cocked my gun and reached in across Harris, poking Shino in the forehead as Masterson did the same with one SAA revolver.

The reaction was instantaneous, Itami scrambling to maneuver his own weapon as Tomita simply barred his arms across the two royals, Chuka, Lelei, and Rory all listening quietly in the back as more and more they had known the difference between an American and a Japanese.

"Are you still drunk bitch?!" Masterson yelled. Bannon had snapped from the back to the front in short order, her right hand clicking the safety up on the M4 as she drew the barrel down to the dashboard and out of her hands, seizing it back as Itami simply looked dumbstruck, an arm put protectively over his ex-wife in case someone went loud.

Neither me or Masterson released our aim as we were more than convinced Harris shit himself, pulling into a rest stop.

"Don't you _**dare**_ raise your weapon at a comrade." I had simply said as both me and Masterson threw up our hammers on our weapons. "And don't you fucking dare accuse any of my soldiers of selling us out. Itami?" I asked for her technical superior.

"Uhm. Ah. Right."

" _ **Is that understood**_ , Sergeant Kuribayashi?!" I yelled with perhaps a little new might, as provided by my two rank promotion.

I got no answer, but a nod instead as she turned her cheek to us and looked straight out the window.

* * *

"Last stop before we head back." Itami had said, getting out of the van to the quiet rest stop, hiding his Makarov in his jacket as everyone disembarked to stretch their legs and change into proper clothes.

Our token refugees had gone out to stretch their legs, but Itami had pointed at the vending machines. "If you want to grab some breakfast, go ahead."

Behind them had been a convenience store of sorts. Unmanned, but a store all the same: on sale having been flowers and bouquets oddly enough.

Masterson had seen what I saw as he had put on some of his own clothes on top of his scavenged suit. He looked at his watch and his eyes flicked open.

"How old would've Sarah been today?"

Sarah O'Neal. Dead at the age of fourteen and a half. Daughter of Tracey O'Neal. I knew her as a gifted violinist and someone who liked Japanese candy that Ginza often sold.

"She would've been fifteen, Cam." Bannon had told him. The man nodded. Tracey was one of his soldiers after all. He felt the loss, and he would remember the O'Neals for all time. Of all those things he had been forced to remember, it was her birthday. Tracey was a good father for having always gushed about the birthday parties he often gave his daughters. They were his reason for fighting, and my two sergeants, and perhaps even me, were jealous of that: of such a pure reason to fight.

For love, for family.

Now Tracey, now him and his family; they had become our excuse, or reason, for having gone over there in the first place.

 _ **Revenge.**_

* * *

But none was to be found over there, the Rangers realized. And using him and his family's death as an excuse to invade, using all the innocents that died, was a disgrace.

If they wanted revenge, if they wanted to be Americans as they were December 8th, 1941, or September 12th, 2001, all they needed to do was just kill the nineteen year olds that were princesses: leaders of the empire that attacked them.

It was as simple as that. But in the end, that was wrong, and third time was the charm.

" _I'm sorry._ " Emerson had said aloud, unknowingly, his psyche having broken for one second, his two sergeants glanced at him worriedly.

Emerson's sergeants as they were, they followed as he walked toward the shop, past the refugees, and grabbed flowers, the two girls playinga round with their paper money and watching the vending machine eat them as they picked out from the cans offered: breakfast, lunch, dinners, often rolled into cans and soups.

Risa had adjusted her hair, her fingers shaking she realized: having been so close to war. Itami had grabbed them so warmly it was a genuine moment between them, just like the way it had been before almost. Maybe a little bit better.

Risa had blushed as she looked up to her ex-husband.

He had in turn done the same and looked away at Emerson and his sergeants, at the refugees and Chuka.

They shared the same fate, in the end. He had survived his own traumatic stress, if only by a thread. He had forgotten it was manga and anime that brought him out of that day to day existence he once lived, after he saw his own mother alight.

He saw the same brewing between the elf and the captain.

"Kay's not going to be right in the head… I think." he observed.

Risa's smile had stopped as she looked at the man in question, wrapping his flowers up in brown paper as best he could in a makeshift bouquet.

"War will do that to you." Risa had said, her eyes going to the cold concrete. "Take care of yourself, alright?" she had told her ex-husband.

"You know me. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, what about them?" she pointed toward the refugees, perplexed by how the machine worked. "The elf, the demigoddess loli, and the wise sorceress… Must be a delight to you."

Itami had only chuckled again as they doubled back around. "Yeah. You know me."

* * *

"Doc! Loke!" Masterson had tossed them canned coffee as they revved up the motorcycles again, still ever wary of the cars going by as the morning came.

"Thanks sergeant!"

Risa had been typing into her computer as Bannon held the flowers in her lap, the royals having gone to sleep again with the other refugees after they had taken their pick of food from the vending machines. She blinked at the notification she had gotten from one of her followers.

"Huh?"

I had hung on the driver's side again as Cam got back on, the van being started. "Apparently there's a memorial scheduled at the Gate before we cross back over."

"What?" I throated as I looked at my phone. I'd been missing quite a few text messages from Godfather and Mitch. I thumbed open the last one from Mitch.

'Go to the Special Region ASAP. Hitman assembled at GATE. Crowd will be your cover.'

"Looks like our boys and girls got their leave cut short." I said as the van rolled onto the highway, the motorcycles taking their positions again.

Itami, in a bout of sudden rage, had slammed his fist against the glass of his window, frustration. "Can't I get at least one day to myself?!"

Masterson had only sighed in the chill of the air as he considered that very same question. Today was December 9th. In a few days, we realized, it would've been Bravo Company's one year anniversary together. I doubted we would've been split apart.

These people were my family, my home. Despite all the bullshit, despite what had just happened to us, the absurdity of it all, we were soldiers, and that meant something that went deeper than blood. Kept us afloat.

"One day, Lieutenant Itami. One day." the Texan reminisced. "You ever imagine what you'll do after you get your pension, Itami?"

"Huh?" the man in question looked up at through the window at the man riding shotgun outside of the van.

"We're in the prime of our lives, right now. Even you, Youji." I had added on. "Ever wonder what you'll do after this?"

"It's a bit too soon to start thinking, ain't it?"

"Personally that's what keeps me sane, the future." he had passively tilted his head toward Bannon, though no one picked that up save for me. "One day my bastard Ma and Pa are gonna die, I'm gonna get what I've been due, and then I'll live a good life… Yeah, a good life, after I make sure these folks in your Special Region are on their way to a good life."

Youji shook his head, even as Risa fell a asleep a bit tired on his shoulder. "I don't like thinking about the future. There's no fun in it."

"Long as my future don't have any criminal hit squads, I think we'll have a good future ahead of us."

Rory had silently stirred awake, groggily. Apparently this was her version of afterglow: "To have the best death, you must live the best life…"

"So you're the goddess of life now?" Bannon had asked sarcastically.

"On occasion."

* * *

 _ **Four months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 15**_

 _ **Japan - Ginza - The Gate**_

* * *

"Today 67 year old former United States President Barack Hussein Obama is in Japan attending this impromptu memorial to the victims of the Ginza Incident along with several of the Japanese royal family and Kim Jung Song, only remaining living member of the Kim Dynasty. The amount of high profile attendees to today's event has brought a high amount of security and military presence to the Ginza District, even more so than it has been ever since the Incident itself. American and Japanese forces having established something very much to the former South and North Korean border crossing around the Gate. Still, many people are out in crowds in the hopes of seeing the refugees from the Special Region, whom only two days ago stunned the world with the stories they shared during the Diet hearings…"

"Oh… sis." Shino had recognized the voice over the radio.

I flipped off the radio as we had crawled to a stop a few blocks down from the Gate, falling into a one way alleyway.

Mitch had a plan here and it seemed to have been working with the amount of snipers and generally military personnel propped up.

The royals had been wide eyed as they saw an army of people, now seeing in full force a fraction of the population of Tokyo rushing toward the Gate.

"Another invasion force…" Pina had worriedly wondered aloud as the motorcycles were ditched.

"Nope." Masterson had said simply as each of Hitman had taken brown bouquets from Bannon, another short stop earlier and white papered flowers having been handed off to the refugees. "Might come after you guys though so…"

"Yo! Captain Kay!" We all snapped our heads up as fourteen Iraq War equipped Rangers had appeared like silhouettes against the blue sky ontop of the buildings, rope being thrown down as Hitman rappelled, surrounding us as a squad should. Kits and helmets had been tossed my way, as well as toward the other Hitman elements that I had brought with me. The otherworlders looked in awe at my troops and I smirked at that.

We had gotten our stuff on fast enough to be fully combat set again, despite the layers underneath being of civilian clothes. I shoved my lever action into a holster as I shouldered my M16A2 again.

"You guys got the good news?" Those that were able to had all saluted me hard and fast. I returned it as Bannon and Masterson found their squads again.

"We green Hitman?"

Black had shrugged as he pulled the bolt back on his SR-25. "Mitch from the MPs at Yokota called us all in the middle of the god damned night and told us to gear up and wait for you guys. Our orders now are to escort you and five VIPs to the other side, sir. Everyone else here is for President Obama and the officials. What's going on?"

The same gear hadn't been afforded to the JSDF, but they didn't mind, Japanese SOG M4s still in their grasps.

Masterson had put on his cowboy hat again as he locked his helmet to his belt, "Hakone's VIP protection squad got smoked. We're being trailed by some thugs. Criminals."

Peters had an extra piece of equipment then when I had last seen him. That is if it was right to call it equipment. It barked with such black fright it had made the refugees all quiver a bit as it almost went at them, Peter having a leash on the eighty pound beast of a German Shepard. I recognized the pup.

"They clear Khan for service over there?" Bannon asked as she gave the dog an encompassing ruB from the top of his head to his neck, scratching it as he wagged his tail and lapped out his tongue. "Yes yes, I missed you too."

Peters had nodded as the dog had gotten the point that these had been the VIPs. Khan was a very smart working dog that we had trained with for the last year, Peters having been the main handler. Bomb detection, scouting, attacking, sentry duties. Khan was as good a soldier as any of us. Had to leave him behind initially, but now things had changed. We all were able to control Khan, he having seen us as family all the same, still couldn't help but feel he had a preference for Peters.

The dog had looked back behind at the man and to Lelei, she gripping her staff harder as Peters nodded and let the dog loose on the girl. Her initial yelp of panic leading to pleased laughing, Khan licking the face of a girl who had been the same size of him.

"Khan. Stay!" I yelled out, Khan backing off from the girl and sitting still, head tilted toward me as I pointed at Itami and Pina. Khan had done the same routine with them, even as the Princess shouting had turned into fits of giggling. Wasn't the same story with Rory, Khan, upon taking a whiff at her, backing off almost immediately.

"I tend not to keep pets. Itami. Emerson."

"They're good with psychological help. I advise spending some time with Khan more, Captain, Miss Marceau." I opened my mouth to make protest, Khan almost trampling the elf in question and chewing on her ears, but I didn't stand on trivialities that Doc was making. I knew he was telling me that I wasn't going to be well, especially with how tightly I held my flowers.

"Orders say we deal with this memorial, and then head back over. Hooah?" My squad had switched from casual to warfighter in short order, forms tightening and guns brought up and out as the crowd went by, little noticing up.

"Hooah." they all responded, Itami giving me a nod that he was to follow, but not before doing one thing first. He thumbed out the rest of the cash in his wallet and held it out to Risa.

"In case the doujinshi doesn't sell well." she had taken off her glasses and rubbed her eyes with her sweater, her poofy hat being taken off by Itami for a second.

"Are you doubting my artistical prowess again?"

He shook his head softly. "I've never doubted anything from you." her face got lower, more upset as she realized what was happening. "Don't make that face."

"Will you come back?" she asked softly.

Itami licked his lips as Hitman, and indeed everyone, had looked away respectfully. He held her close before she cried, taking her head to his chest as he rested his own on her hair.

"To you? I'll try, soon enough. I promise."

"Mmm." she mumbled, taking in Itami again.

"Go home, lock your doors for a few days, and then go do well at the exhibit, alright? I'll send some of Cam's ideas and maybe some favors for you to get a bodyguard your way soon enough." he reassuringly mumbled into her scalp before giving himself and her a little distance, but still connected by touch. "Take care, _**my wife**_. Thank you for letting us stay over, on behalf of us all."

And so for the first time in nearly five years, on the precipice of hopping over the border of one world to another and leaving each other, they did what all people, despite what they legally were, did when they were in love.

They kissed.

* * *

It was more of a square than it was a protective circle. Rory, being the show off that she was, had gone off without us and, much like Moses, parted that sea. It was a sea of people, Otakus, those wanting to get a picture off of the refugees, but a sea nonetheless as we were given a straight show, down a few blocks, toward the Gate and the memorial.

Funny enough, Miller's, the convenience store where me and Cameron had started this story in what felt like so long ago, was our starting point.

"You think that kid is okay?" Cameron asked me as we slowly made our way past, our front to the crowd as the police tried to keep the masses from swarming us, Lelei having her hands over her ears and eyes closed. She wasn't used to this kind of noise, this amount of people at once. Loke had reassuringly placed her hand on her small back as the two royals walked forward with awe, Tomita and Doc having a hand on Bozes and Pina respectively, ready to push them down if anything happened.

"The fire air freshener can kid?" I clarified.

"Yeah."

"Maybe. Maybe."

In our petty pace Pina was given enough time to observe, to see the face of every single man, woman, and child who came to see us and how the entire city was shut down. "Why do all of these people… why do they cheer for us?"

"They think you're victims. Strong people who dared come over to our side to tell your story. You're not invaders to us. You're Japanese." Itami had said before I shot him a raised eyebrow.

"We're only human. All of us… well, within reason." motioning to Rory as we all walked, flowers in hand.

When we had gotten to that wall of a memorial, we were sweating bullets despite the fact it was winter. What fresh breath we got immediately bit back as, wordlessly, we were approached by one of America's representatives. A man who used to be THE representative.

We all had instinctually clacked our heels together as we turned around and saw him offer one in turn.

"President Obama." I nodded as I kept my salute, waiting for anything to be said as I was within hand shake distance of the oldest living former president. He approached me because I was the lead officer, and he was used to it. Man had barely looked a day over fifty five.

He saluted and put his hand down in front of me as Itami and the JSDF were distracted by Empress Masako and how she had more warmly greeted her soldiers. It took me a long five seconds to finally return the handshake.

"You take care of the guests well?" he asked in his distinctive voice, his wife Michelle, and their three grown children, two daughters and a son, standing respectfully as they waved.

With them had been the last semblance of a North Korea: Kim Jung Un's son, having long been pacified to Western ideals and sensibilities. Foreign dignitaries, embassy staffers, foreigner officials, they all lined the makeshift seating. Knowing Mitch he had probably orchestrated this all on short notice in order to cover our escape back to The Special Region.

With what had just happened at the resort and what crackdown would've come from that, if they were as bold to attack us in broad daylight with so many world leaders at risk, there would've been hell to pay... Heck, ever since China's housing bubble popped and Russia's economy had collapsed, the criminal underworld had been on careful standing with the worldwide community, trying not to piss off anyone off.

"Of course, sir." I said simply to a former president, my breath catching my throat.

"Best America can offer?" It was an ambiguous question, but I sucked in my breath. Presidential campaigning was kicking back off in the states, and, even though I was interested in seeing President Dirrel kicked out, courtesy of the great democratic process, I hadn't been following it so far.

"The best we can be." He smiled and nodded as he and Empress Makato, several of the grieving families that had lost loved ones in the Ginza Incident behind them approached the otherworlders, the way the entire squad had clacked their feet together making Pina revere the man coming toward her after he had shook the hands of Lelei and Chuka. It was something that resembled fear.

"I wish you and your people long lives and happiness, Princess Pina Co Lada." he said.

"O-only if you help." she said, timidly, her handshake limp with Obama. Recognizing him as an important person. She had heard that word before in the lesson and nearly broke down: President.

The former president had smacked his lips once, giving a glance over to the empress, on her way to probably give the same words. "That is the responsibility of the Japanese, Princess."

"But I want the Americans to help too."

Obama leaned in, and whispered into her ear before he had pressed on to Bozes, his smile returning. "Be careful what you wish for, princess… but we will try."

Empress Masako had been on site too with several of the younger members of the royal family of Japan. She had been easier to confront as she had confronted the members of the JSDF first, Itami putting on a face I had only seen him put on before during the medal ceremony after Ginza.

Empress Masako had been the former crown princess of Japan when I had grown up, coming to her current title around the same year I had graduated from West Point. She had fondly embraced Masterson to all of our surprise. She had been the one that acted on behalf of Emperor Naruhito to open up the gates of the Palace all those months ago, my sergeant having gone to his knees, bleeding out, as she looked below on the balcony at the chaos brewing in the Ginza skyline and to the man sputtering nonsense below.

Naturally we had taken a bow to the Japanese leader, she using a white gloved hand to raise Pina as she copied us.

The Empress had taken her hand. Royalty to royalty. The Empress knew who she was. Inversely, the princess knew who she was. They weren't so different, in the long span of things. Whoever they were, ceremonial, actual figureheads, titles and roles left to interpretation of their actual worth in this "modern" world, they had been one and the same: future and the past in the living present.

"Such old hands, for a young person, Princess." she said softly, feeling the ridges in her hand, made from training, from Italica.

"It is a necessary sacrifice." the princess had said, even with her hand still being held. The Empress had slightly bowed her head down and saw eye to eye wit her.

"Great sacrifices are never the ones of blood and flesh, princess. Putting your heart and soul at hazard is a greater sacrifice. One I have personally faced before."

Empress Masako and the royal family at the time had stood as Japan went in, for the first and only time since Article 9 was reinterpreted in 2015, with the US and the "Coalition of the Damned" as the Third Iraq War happened. They had seen Japan draw their own blood for the first time and what it had done: to see Japan fight their first war in half a century.

Perhaps this princess had been on the same precipice. The same decisions. With a smile, the empress took pity on the princess as her mouth wouldn't shut on her own, in awe. The empress's thumb had grace her jaw as she cupped her cheek, pushing it up as she had gone further down the line to greet the refugees.

* * *

It was fourteen hundred hours by the time we had gotten the crowd to calm down and silence enough for respect to be given, each of us, all that had flowers, placing them before the names of all those killed. I had to wonder what Pina had thought, to think if she actually did think of these people at all. She was royalty after all, born to not see the plebeians below as people.

But still, she put her flowers down with the refugees, and clasped her hands together in what I assumed was prayer. This had given us time enough to find the O'Neals, their name punched in black marble, and put flowers before them.

He wasn't there, among the people who lost, standing or sitting respectfully with the refugees as they offered prayer and condolences. But he was always there. A living man whose ghost had defined the Ginza Incident. How many times did he try to end his life in the ward? I stopped counting not too long before I had stopped reading his status reports altogether.

God knows I didn't want to see the world see me get on my knees as I begged before the dead to forgive me, but they did, and I wasn't the only one as Hitman found a place in line, and prayed. Not in the name of a Christian, Jewish, Islamic, or any other faith. They prayed for something higher than God: of death and a peaceful afterlife, hopefully.

Without realizing it, we were praying for Rory; for Emroy.

How many times had Americans bowed down before a memorial like this? How many times had blood been spilled on sacred New York City ground as we had invaded Iraq for the third time, and we as a nation had been screaming and kicking all the way down.

Maybe the Japanese would learn.

Rory had been the only one worthy to break the silence as she stood, having finally revealed her halberd to a hushed breath across.

"A bell must be rung to lay all of the dead to rest." she stated simply. Cam broke his own prayer as he looked at his watch.

"Just a few seconds, Rory."

And so the two o'clock bell from one of Ginza's bell towers had rung out, the defining sound, of a defining moment, as the Heroes of Ginza stood before the gate again, and the refugees from the other world had visited it.

And that was supposed to be all that the ceremony was.

The air raid siren blared, but even above that, the cheering started, the crowd roaring as they saw a people they loved. Itami, Masterson, Me, Lelei, Rory, Chuka.

The Japanese people loved us in a thousand different ways. As soldiers, survivors, saviors.

Whatever the case was I had wiped my eyes and stood tall as the cheering resounded, and the first set of security gates were opened behind us as well all looked on in the thousands deep crowds.

My mind started buzzing, my feet unconsciously telling me to move as I remembered Italica, turning away, passing the royals.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _An invasion of armies can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come._

 _Victor Hugo_

* * *

Never in her life, had Pina ever heard this kind of thunderous applause, her eyes watering as she felt the love, the courage, the reverence for her and the otherworlders. What kind of people gave out such warmth and such coldness? Death and live and love?

Emerson shuffled passed her. "Do you hear the people sing, princess?" he chuckled darkly as he held himself. "Singing _**the song of mad men**_."

She didn't know what was happening to Emerson, or what he had meant, but all she could do was look down and not look at the masses in the eye as the cheered for them all. She felt the metal weight against her belt, hidden away from view. The future of her empire on her hip.


	15. 1-12: Sin of the Mission

A/N: This one I didn't need booze to write. The Special Region is certainly a very fun thing to write about. It's not the harshness of a nuclear wasteland, some destroyed nation, or the unkind grittiness of a desert. No. This is a healthy world, a beautiful world even. It's always people that make the world ugly. The "white man" if I am quoting Masterson, but alas, how long can that last?

-SpaceRicePirate, RealityDeviant

I keep beating myself over the resort firefight, but, as other people have said, what I was going off of was not a very helpful thing. Granted I could've written my own scenario entirely, but I dealt with what I have, and, unless I get something completely revolutionary in my head in the next few days, I'll suck my teeth in and deal with how it is, and I'll stand by it for now. Especially the JSDF SOGs getting ousted. I do not know how, at present, I could redo it. But maybe something will come from my mind later, or perhaps another reviewer would be able to outline something. Either way, I'm past that now, for better or worse.

As for Obama's spotlight. I think he was, of everything, the most of my drunken ideas come forward onto writing. Don't know how to reapproach a drunk me's reasoning for him, so I don't know what to do.

-American nationalism on my part

Once again, I have to reiterate I do fully appreciate those of you reviewers putting my head straight and telling me I'm doing okay. To have American exceptionalism survive, despite all the history between us and them, it makes me happy that it could happen, and it exists here.

-Space program

One user sent me a PM regarding this actually: To have satellites launched into orbit in The Special Region. Unfortunately I'll have to say now to that right now. Furthest we'll get I think are drones.

-Timeline

RipTidez, one of the best reviewers I've seen, has been collaborating with me behind the scenes to get a timeline of this world out, and maybe I'll post it in the interim as an "omake" or "supplemental" chapter that I use as interludes between sections. Either way, expecting plenty of good stuff from him, related to this or not.

-Spec Ops: The Line

I've actually made up my mind straight on this. Dubai did indeed happen, and Major Walker will make an appearance perhaps, if not at least a few references. There is a reason why I call that black space in the gate "Limbo".

-Kaynato

"It is very hard to find stories like this."

I do not know whether or not you are referring to GATE stories or stories of the topic matters in this story (Imperialism, American Imperialism, Japanese Nationalism and Denial, PTSD, War Crimes, the Middle East), but I assume the topic matters.

And that statement hit me hard, because it's true. Evangelion, my dabblings in SAO, Black Lagoon, Call of Duty, sections far and wide on this site, they lack stories like this out of either a.) People not wanting to do them/understand the topic matter or b.) the source materials are not friendly to integrate with the topic matter.

Which is why GATE is a gem to me. Modern military v. a lesser power and culture. Though framed as some fantastical harem adventure to the casual observer. I don't see it like that. I see it as an opportunity to make stories like this: of war as we know it. To think that GATE's author ignores very important aspects of the wars America fights today, and indeed wars fought across history, and does not apply them more to his story, I am disappointed to the point I am compelled to write this story. Not only as a relief crack fic for me, but as a statement about the destiny of nations who take on this old path: of Manifest Destiny.

Your review humbles me very much, and I thank you, and, perhaps most importantly, my characters thank you.

By reading a story and experiencing it, they live, and you live, with them for that short while they occupy your mind, your life. That is what is in the back of my head as I create characters: they have lives too, and they are more than welcome to share it with you, the readers.

They, and the lessons they learned, you will carry for the rest of your life till you tell them yourself in your own story.

-Mary Sue

I don't really see much explanation as to what is mary sue in this story thus far. I don't have any indications to anything pointing toward that state, granted with the refugees they might be a tad bland. Even Itami, the mary sue of this series, I've tried to fix by making him clash between otaku, a relatively youthful hobby, and his thirty three year old self: a man getting old.

-In general

I won't be gone long. I just need a break. Maybe that break will be a month, a few weeks, or maybe even just five days. Either way, seeing as the first anime season ended here, I will take the opportunity to give myself a breather.

As always, my door is open to people who want to discuss this story and other GATE fics in the work as well. I'll be more than happy to help.

Anyway, enjoy. Read and review. I love you all sincerely for reading as hard, as much, as you have this story.

* * *

 _ **Ending of Section 1**_

 _ **Section 1-12**_

* * *

Bannon had been the one to pat down the refugees and the otherworlders before the Gate crossing had started, as rushed as it was. It was necessary to cut down on smuggling back and forth between the Special Region and this world (I had already gotten a slip regarding the couch that was smuggled by one of Masterson's friends in logistics).

JSDF had patted us all down too, just to be fair, returning what weapons to the JSDF that had been from their destroyed third platoon.

Also we had to tell them that the third platoon was destroyed.

That had shocked them as that new story had started coming over the radio in the background about the massacre at Hakone. Of how the Defense Minister put out a statement of some training exercise gone wrong.

It was of no matter to us, I suppose.

"Self-defense." Shino had justified as she had held onto the weapons they had scavenged from the criminals. Even as all the weapons from across different eras were put down on a table for one of the MPs to inspect as they were brought out, me and my two staff sergeants kept our own scavenged weapons.

Bannon had racked the bolt back and forth five times however to unload the gun, unspent rounds falling like rain to the concrete before the Gate and its final processing checkpoint. Hers, upon closer inspection, had indeed been a short magazine Indian Army Rifle from the Cold War: a rechambering of the Lee-Enfield rifle in 7.62 NATO: wood worn down and metal bare to an unkind world. Its appearance spoke volumes of a century that had gone by ever since its design was achieved.

The Enfield had been a rifle that spoke of an empire. To Pina's knowledge, a British Empire. It was indeed a remains of what was once the world's greatest example. It spoke of The Great War, the colonies abroad: India, Africa, Australia, South Asia, the Middle East. Of how the great white, Christian people, as Winston Churchill once called the British, spread its influence abroad only to have him and the idea of empire itself die because of it and the people they conquered.

He hadn't seen the disaster of the Middle East as Britain had carved it: how in 2016 America left the region entirely sans a few outposts and embassies, ISAF dissolved: Iraq and Afghanistan left to their fate. Four years after that we had recognized the Kurdish homeland as ISIS and the returning warlords of Iraq destroyed Iraq as a nation and occupied it along with Syria.

Churchill hadn't seen, as much as he had loved Americans and how we "always did the right thing", us fail in Dubai and the UAE. How we had sent an entire Army battalion to Dubai to evacuate the city despite the protest of the UAE, and were there when Dubai was swallowed whole by the sandstorms that still persist today.

The Damned 33rd never made it out, going down in history as the saviors come to Dubai, only to rape it lifeless: the shining towers of that miracle city now a tombstone for America as it were in the Middle East in 2018.

The Lee-Enfield rifle had been the skeletal remains of the catalyst of Middle Eastern instability; the dying breath, of power that tried.

It had looked the part as Bannon threw it and its weathered strap across her back.

The double barrel shotgun had done the same on Masterson's as he had spun the two black and wood grip revolvers around in his hands like old hat, thumbing open the loading gates and using the ejector rod to extract the .357 ammunition. Only after they had been unloaded had he put one pistol left center in his pants, the other over his right butt cheek on the other side.

A gunslinger's holstering.

Indeed, me and Masterson had shared the same history in the firearms we held: my lever action being a cut down, both in barrel and stock, to almost pistol length. Thirty ought six, this one had been chambered in, the design on its receiver of gold and rose petals.

If Bannon's rifle had spoke of Empire. Ours had spoke of expansion: the American Wild West which both she and Masterson had come from. I flip cocked it with only one hand as I put it back in my holster. Of what we had feared of the Japanese doing in the Special Region.

At least we had experience: learned from our mistakes these last two decades. At least we alone had finally built the Middle East after thirty years, if only because by that time, a new generation had grown up under a world of Pax Americana. Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Kurdistan, what remained of the Middle East... They were finally at peace, but it took three decades.

Even in North Korea, we had to hypnotize the last of the Kims in order to stop the rampant guerilla war that had been on China's doorstep. Only then had Korea existed again as a functioning, whole, state.

"There's no procedure for this, so I'll pass a document on to have these stored in the armory. Best to have them there I think… If you have any use for them, they'll be there." The MP said as we had waited for Bannon to stop patting down a very nervous Pina.

"I think I'll hold onto these things," Masterson said as he patted his new revolvers. "Reminds me of home."

"You really like playing cowboy, sergeant, don't you?" One of the Rangers had scoffed as they were handed back their M4 and got into the waiting Humvees, the JSDF waiting for the refugees.

"These are the guns that won the west, corporal. That's the nice thing about guns. Second they're made, they will remain effective for all time, regardless of the time." he tipped his hat with one finger.

Maybe Masterson had a point, but Bannon had grunted angrily as she tore something from the robes of the princess: a black object, another old gun that spoke of evil.

She ejected the magazine and placed it on the table as she had ejected the round in the chamber and caught it in mid-air, Itami looking expectantly at the princess, her eyes darting back and forth as we all stared at her. "German model P-08. Nine millimeter Parabellum. **_A Luger._** " Bannon said as she put her hands on her hip.

Itami raised an eyebrow that spoke of disappointment, but as an MP approached the two royals he had put his arm out to stop them. "They were carrying it for their own protection. They simply forgot to give them back to us. That is all, sergeant." he said, a smile on his face as the JSDF personnel shrugged.

Doc had taken the gun himself and reloaded it. If people were taking souvenirs, he would have his own. It was, after all, the same model his grandpa had used during World War Two. What he had forgotten to pick up however, was the nine millimeter round that had gone to the concrete, Lelei silently picking it up with her powers and taking it within her tote.

The MP flared his nose and twitched his face, tipping his own cap down to shield his eyes as he walked away. "I didn't see anything." Paperwork tended to dissuade such proper and necessary action.

"Did we see anything, captain? Lieutenant?" Bannon had said as her voice had grated like steel mesh.

I shared a look at Itami before, perhaps against my better judgement, shaking a negative. He had done the same to Bannon as Pops simply came up behind the royals and shuffled them and the refugees to the waiting cars, Kurata standing at attention as they came to RCT3's vehicles, some of RCT3 having come back out to ferry their lieutenant back and their favorite Americans.

Kuro had still been a shock to see to Masterson and Bannon, her hair having recovered from being burned or cut off from Italica, bags underneath her eyes that told me of work that had been done over there.

"You have more than enough information, Princess Co Lada…" I said as we all had started walking toward the Humvees to mount and head out back to that promised land. "The second you pick up a gun, you go straight to Hell. We'll spare you that trip."

A warning, a cautionary tale, a threat, all rolled into one not too subtle message from my rather low voice.

Kurata had smiled at me as he laughed at what I said. "Not like we're going through Limbo, or anything." he motioned to the blackness beyond the Gate.

"Don't jinx it, Sergeant." Itami had patted the head of his friend and driver, the lead vehicle that of RCT3. He turned to me before we separated. "See you on the other side, Captain." he saluted, but I only shook my head and gave a light one in return. Kurata, unaware of my rank promotion, had hurriedly bore salute as I waved the two off, Masterson getting into the seat of the Humvee as the Gate remained open for us, the crowd still dissipating behind the security walls.

The refugees followed, but not before Bannon had reached out a hand and grabbed the young girl's arm. "Hey, Lelei, do you mind if you ride with me for a bit?" she asked in her best, clearest voice.

She looked between Itami and her, but eventually she had relented and nodded, following Bannon with her team back to her two Humvees.

Little I could do but to lock and load and go back to a warzone, Black having gotten into the lead victor's turret and Peters getting in with Harris, Khan following obediently into the boot.

I sucked in some of the cold air for a bit longer than I anticipated, Masterson banging on the door for me to get in. It was his advice he had just interrupted however. I always remembered.

I slid in as he began to play around with a radio. "Loaded it up with 2000s song. Throwback Thursday yo. Gonna make this shit my jam on the other side." The touchscreen of the radio had loaded up a particular album I myself hadn't heard in years, but I suppose it defined what we all were, deep down.

As was a tradition, soldiers played a song during the GATE crossing. The Imperials did it with war drums, the Marines did it with Seven Nations Army, and the Japanese had been playing the same American pop from that period of the early 2000s. Nostalgia had been a funny factor that led our ways, but music was important, and I had no complaint as the first cars started rolling, and our world turned to black.

I brought my aviators over my eyes as I closed them. "Tell me when we're there."

"Yes captain."

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Green Day – Wake Me Up When September Ends**_

 _ **As sung by Hitman Squad**_

* * *

The same question, but a different person. Itami in his weariness had asked for Pina to repeat it as he looked back over his shoulder to the young woman asking his attention as the cars rolled on the perfectly flat surface of that place between worlds.

"Why do the Americans sing so much, Itami?"

And sang they did of a song that many soldiers had listened to as they sat in desert bases, half a world away from home in the name of Iraqi Freedom.

Kurata, though not meaning to answer, had identified the album this particular song had been from, most, if not all of the Americans singing with the somber tune of a guitar and a chime.

"American Idiot."

 _ **Summer has come and passed**_

 _ **The innocent can never last**_

 _ **wake me up when September ends**_

"Are they?" she asked.

Itami had immediately shook his head no. "Nah."

 _You learned about them, Princess, Americans. So you know they are a people of ideas. Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. They're all ideas._

 _Unlike us Japanese, we've always been, our history and our ideals rooted in the fact we've just always existed on our island nation of ours… The Americans do not have that history, they were born from ideas, not from a common people or land._

 _ **like my father's come to pass**_

 _ **seven years has gone so fast**_

 _ **wake me up when September ends**_

 _Imagine if, a group of people, say, Italica, detached themselves from the Empire. You don't want it, and it isn't official in the Imperial record keeping, but they believe in themselves and leave you behind. If you march in to reclaim what you think is yours, you'll be marching against, not Imperial civilians, but Italicans, or the people of Italica who identify with their rights and ideals._

 _ **here comes the rain again**_

 _ **falling from the stars**_

 _ **drenched in my pain again**_

 _ **becoming who we are**_

 _That is how easy it is for a new people, a new nation, to be born. And ideas can't be killed as easily as the people that carry them. Especially if those ideas are held across the fifty-one states that America has today._

 _The songs they sing, we sing them too, but they are American songs with American ideas underneath their catchy lyrics or melodies. As long as those songs exist, the culture they have spread across the world, they will be continued to be sung, and read, and talked about, and Americans will survive._

 _ **as my memory rests**_

 _ **but never forgets what I lost**_

 _ **wake me up when September ends**_

 _That is why they sing, princess. I think._

 _They have become… detached from the world in the last twenty years, and, just a little bit, they fall back on old tendencies that made the world shun them back then. Perhaps not literally, but spiritually, emotionally._

 _If I am interpreting Rory's… feelings toward them correctly, it is something of a withdrawal they're going through._

 _…_

 _Well, yes, I suppose we're only, all of us, humans._

…

 _Kay, Lisa, even Cameron. They're some of the best people I've ever known in the service, but, and it hurts to say this Princess, but, beware the Americans. As I said with the songs they sing, the art they create, the machines they forge, they infect your society, as they have infected ours. For better or worse._

 _The curse of Pax Americana, I suppose…_

 _…_

 _Pax Americana? Yeah. I think it's Latin... language back a few thousand years. Why?_

* * *

 _ **Five months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 42**_

 _ **2029 AD (Earth Calendar)**_

 _ **The Special Region – Italica/Arnus Corridor – "The Corridor"**_

* * *

Sergeant Sir Alton Wilbur, and, depending how you looked at it, Kingdom Come, had been sitting on their ass for the better part of a month and a half. Last shot they had ever fired in anger having been at Italica, ever since then he had been recruited as one of the community leaders of the interesting phenomenon that had transpired in the last month on the very safe, sixty five kilometers between Arnus Hill and Italica.

It wasn't, to the modern people, a long distance: the length from the tip of Manhattan to White Plains essentially. But it was a distance unseen by the Imperial people of The Special Region: on how such an area could be, generally, safe from the roaming bandits and raiders that had all been wiped out on this side of the mountain range.

True, petty crime still existed, but it was one step at a time for the giant main street that had been slowly playing host to land development and a medieval town like no other in either world's history.

On one end had been Omega Point, as the US Marines still called Arnus Hill Base: the airfield there completed and jointly operated by the US Marines and the JSDF, but otherwise the Marines having given the Japanese the hill to themselves asides from Colonel Pierce's own post and a security platoon. Just outside of Arnus Hill had formed the refugee camp turned small village that those that stayed behind at Arnus to mine the remains of the hundreds of dragons still waiting to be picked, the rest of the refugees having heard Lelei's offer of living in Italica, a dream to many.

This refugee camp, itself once isolated from the rest of the Empire both by the grace of the Special Task Force and actual isolation, had become host to the first Post Exchange, or PX, that the JSDF and the Marines had ferried over in order to sustain themselves and the refugees. This shop, stocked and much more well provided than any other shop in the Special Region's history, had become something of the largest attraction to the people of the Special Region, many refugees slowly coming back to build on what was abandoned and what had been new on the promise of a new life.

Immigrants, almost.

There at Arnus Hill, the language program that had been jointly provided by the JSDF and the Marines had continued, the new lingua franca having been Japanese, even if the government dignitaries, the Marines and the JSDF who cared, and several of the first civilians over: aid workers from the Japanese corps, had learned the Imperial Language too.

The Rose Order had been resistant to learning Japanese and, to an extent, English, but the order came down from Pina that all of the Order and their servants were to learn for the future. RCT3, Hitman Squad, and Cato and his apprentice Lelei, had been the teachers, so that had smoothened out the process.

Hitman and RCT3 in particular. Though real time translation existed, and the Rangers hadn't been the Green Berets who were actually ordered to learn languages, the Americans knew Japanese well enough to teach, more likely than not from Emerson's own insistence during his first months as their lieutenant.

With income, and language, squared away, work also provided at first from battlefield scavenging, but then eventually the jobs a medieval community brings: a town was formed, and land was leased under Lelei's guidance as a high official of Italica under Myui. A high official enough that the Marines had saluted her (though not the JSDF, who continued to use her as a translator primarily).

No one had really known though it hadn't really been Lelei's guidance however, more of her words echoing suggestions given by a woman she had made an agreement with on the ride over from her visit to Japan. The first real estate company in the Special Region, and indeed the first of any organization outside of the Special Task Force's affairs, established by a person from the other side of the Gate, was established under the table by Staff Sergeant Lisa Bannon behind Lelei's cover.

It was that company, translated name meaning: Mountain Holdings (Mountain the actual name of Montana, her home state), that had owned the land of which 90% of the Corridor had existed on and was being built on to great profit.

It wasn't hard to a seasoned veteran like Bannon. Most of the collected bills having been justified as "protection" on behalf of the Special Task Force. Lelei hadn't minded either, as much as Bannon had flaunted her entrepreneurial skills, she was convinced she hadn't been a threat in the long span of things. That and she knew how to keep a record. Not under her real name of course. There was no need for that little act of realtor indiscretion to be common knowledge yet, if at all.

Wilbur had found himself on the Arnus half of The Corridor that late day, the Italica half being built up with a more western disposition to land expansion in lands that were not their own: education had been the name of the game in Italica, and indeed many, many Marines had become tutors, teachers, of the arts they had specialized in.

Education was the way to a functioning society, not a particular type of governance; and even then, it was never democracy that the US had wanted in the end, it was good governance. Myui was still heir to the Italica holdings, and the people respected her as such, especially since she had sent her father's army of maids into The Corridor to help accelerate the building of the towns up and down into something of a new powerhouse in the region. The farmers had been sent back to the fields and trade had been reestablished like the days of old, but this had been a new age.

Granted, perhaps, the only reason why things had been going smoothly was because of a reason that had culminated in Iran nearly ten years ago in 2021:

Iran hadn't been, at all, cut off from the world, but when they had finally completed a nuclear weapon and started weapon testing in the Indian Ocean, Israel had been the first to go to action, declaring yet another war in the Middle East that America was dragged into amidst the conflict with a stabilized and, unfortunately, a fully realized Islamic Caliphate in Iraq that had caused NATO to go in again for the third time in four decades. This time the multinational force had been labeled after the unfortunate unit that had gone into Dubai with a disgraced Colonel Konrad: The Coalition of the Damned.

NATO forces in the region shored up forces from their home countries and, once again, invaded a Middle Eastern nation: Iran. This time there had been WMDs, and this time the populace had been very amiable to Americanized values. Iran had been fixed faster in two years than Iraq had been in nearly twenty: the populace actually wanted it.

A stern reminder across those in the Special Task Force of why it was working out right now.

The Italica half of The Corridor had been much more reserved in terms of what modern amenities had been sold and exchanged in the PXs that had spread out up and down The Corridor, Arnus giving them out as the money and the populace dictated. The Marines had been much more reserved with actual physical material, but what they had given out freely, and was perhaps worth more than all the amenities of the PXs, was knowledge.

At the end of the day however, the Japanese doctrine had dictated that the PXs stay open on the Italica side of The Corridor, as was why Wilbur had been explaining the miracles of a rubber duck to a gathering of kids who had surrounded him and his crew who had been on a table outside of one of the restaurants.

"A few of these homes on this side of The Corridor have some form of plumbing set up by engineers. They've been using them as examples for the local populace to get running water from the pumping station at the river." Kingdom Come's loader had explained as to why rubber ducks had been being sold at all, taking back his jug of ale as the rest of his squad tore into a roast vulture.

Wilbur had been making rhythms with the whine of the rubber duck to the young children's delight, they, surprisingly, saying thank you to Wilbur. _**In English**_.

The ambiance was that of a main street in full, and as the kids took off with their gift from Sir Wilbur, he having still worn his cape and sword on top of his tanker uniform, it had felt a bit homely.

Minus the yellow tailed furry that had been filling his wooden mug.

Most, if not all, of Myui's maids that had helped The Corridor in its day to day business hadn't been human: to one of RCT3's sergeants delight, many of the maids had cat ears, bushy tails, fangs, rather elegant forms, and a number of other rather animal additions and features that had made Wilbur rethink his concept on existence and humanity.

I mean, sure, he had seen furries back on Earth, but these were the real deal, as creepy as that had made him sound.

There had even been just full-fledged anthropomorphic animals: dogs, cats, birds, pigs, just walking around casually. None of the towns people had batted an eye because they were normal.

Still, they were more or less "human", if such a term could be used: people.

He raised his glass after thumbing a gold coin into her pawish hands, she bowing and smiling respectfully. "Cheers, madam."

Kingdom Come's own secret had been that chest full of gold coin that the family had delivered to them a month ago, and, in this world, it was very much a bounty that would've last a lifetime between the four crew men. That stash of gold had been hidden, by calling in a favor to Captain Emerson, in Hitman's quarters in the Fromar Keep, the Rangers having been stationed there.

The family itself had been greatly rewarded, perhaps a bit out of line on behalf of Kingdom Come, but they had been living pretty in one of the nicer houses near the rebuilt Italica: the walls having come back up, but less about defense and more about observation. A little more like Baghdad.

"Feels more like vacation, don't it now?" Wilbur had said as he had leaned back against the table.

"It ain't bad. No one here wants to kill us and we're filthy stinking rich."

"Yeah, well," Wilbur had bit back his drink, "Weren't we all back home?"

"Oh come on Alton," the gunner had said as he put down his vulture leg to the ground, wiping his hands with bread. "More adventure here."

"I didn't come here to have an adventure, gunny." he said as he spotted two JSDF personnel come into view down the street, putting down some coin for the maid as a tip. He had been liberal with money recently. That and introducing these people to the concept of tips. "I'll see you guys back at the garrison."

"See ya English."

Wilbur was a very friendly man, as he liked to tell himself in the mirror as he shaved, but that had some backing behind that in that he had become friends with Emerson and Itami in short order, one leading to the other. True, Emerson hadn't been one to be seen walking around the streets, but he was usually having some work down in terms of paperwork or communicae between the various parties in the Special Task Force. Itami had been the more public figure, and here he had been taking a stroll that evening with Pops.

Wilbur raised his hand as he approached, half a salute, half a wave.

"Lieutenant."

"Sergeant." he returned as the two shook hands.

"Huh. I think you mean Sir Sergeant." he boasted, most of it coming from the unrefined ale.

Itami had shook his head unimpressed. "There was no such thing as 'Sir' in this day and age, Alton."

"Yeah, well, I'm just about equal to those gals down in the Rose Order. They seem rather sirish and knightly."

"Grasping for straws."

"Eh. How was the New Years vacation for you?"

Itami had put on his rather handsome smile as he adjusted his green cap. "Great, actually, thanks for asking, went to the Winter Exhibition and everything. But they got me assigned to some deployment tomorrow, thought I go out of the town with Pops for something. My medic and Hitman's medic called us out."

"Mind if I tag along?" Wilbur had waved a hand to the two JSDF members, they shrugging as Wilbur latched onto the man's side.

Pops had looked over at Kingdom Come's tank crew still eating at a restaurant, having linked a table with another JSDF group. "Food here any good?" he asked.

Wilbur shrugged. "It's a bit bland, to be honest. Too salty. Still, you get tired of the chow hall real quick." he put his hands behind his head as he looked up into a peachy sky, contrails from a training flight of Marine F-18s still having drawn their mark in it. "What I'd do for some place able to make a good munchy box."

"Munchy…box?" Pops had asked, curious.

"Basically onion rings, chips, wings, tenders, kebab meat, and some dipping sauce all shoved into one box and given for late nights. Had a place I'd go to in Glasgow when Scotland was still part of the UK…" the British man had reminisced of days gone past and weight gained.

"You think if we introduce such a platter here we might see some consequences…?" the bigger man wondered aloud as the group passed a PX.

"Always a butterfly effect, sergeant. Dollar store amenities we've been selling from those places," he thumbed at the place as they passed it on the dirt main street, "been ending up in Italica in some royal inventories. Anything we bring will be new to them."

Wilbur had adjusted his cape to show off his sword. The Rose Order had been more than willing to teach him how to wield a sword in exchange for some extra tutoring in English. Was certainly odd they had accidently adopted his British accent, but that was no matter to him. "Ah, what wares they got are actually still pretty neat. Some of the Marines are injecting cash into the local economy by buying souvenirs."

Cash had meant a lot of things, from the typical denarii to bartering, but occasionally, and Wilbur had seen this happen, bullet casings that were still in circulation. Officially all the items bought at the PXs were, in the end, bought by the Japanese yen, the conversion process taking place as denarii was slowly being phased out, other shops taking yen as well in a tricky process that summed up in economical assimilation.

It was an order spread out across the JSDF and the 7th MEU that bullets were only to be used for shooting purposes, and anyone who had been caught using it as currency would face repercussions. Still, Wilbur had kept a few spent nine millimeter rounds in his pockets just in case.

"Personally I think The Corridor might get too big too fast." Pops worried. The Marines had been punching out qualified men and women able to man these shops and the town at a rather reasonable pace, trade work not an obscene concept to these people, but, as was a modern problem as well, not enough qualified to do what was needed. Myui's maids had been the only reason why the town was still afloat.

"Oh come on. Don't you feel a little proud that you've got products with "Made in Japan" floating everywhere now?" Alton had said as he had waved to a pair of maids carrying a bundle of towels from a PX.

Pops grunted as he had waved away some of Itami's cigarette smoke. "I'm worried about everything nowadays, Sergeant. Especially with some of the young boys getting a bit too friendly with the maids and the local population." he referred to the rather rowdy off-duty servicemen in the bars and the restaurants around. "…Aren't you a regular, Wilbur?"

Wilbur put his hands up defensively. "Hey. I sat through Emerson's PSA earlier on why not to fuck the locals. I don't want to end up like Harris on sunshine sweeping duty. Man makes a mean Power Point."

Itami only reassuringly patted the old man's back as he glared at the Englishman. "I'm sure if something happens, we'll adjust our SOP accordingly. Right Wilbur?"

"Of course, lieutenant."

Or maybe the locals could handle it, as was evident enough from a glass being broke inside of a tavern, the sound of a very hearty kick, and a man being thrown out the swinging doors to the other side of the street by a waitress.

A bunny-human waitress, if that had explained the force of the kick.

"Get the hell out!" she had said in the common language, following the man's path out the door to make a point, a serving tray in one hand as they were cocked at her hips. She smacked her own behind, displaying it and her red uniform. "My ass is too good for the likes of you!"

The man who had caused some discretion had rubbed his head as he stumbled up, a rather short and wide man, decidedly, the foam of a drink still on his beard.

"You little bitch-!"

Any thought of Wilbur going for his sword was stayed as a very familiar purple halberd had come down to the dirt in front of the man, about to make a swing at the bunny woman.

Of all the aspects and factors that the Special Task Force had added onto this society, it had been that of the "Special Task Force Administered Local Militia Police". Otherwise known as STALMP, to those who had been so tight assed to not just refer to the militia members as local MPs.

The black armbands of those few dozens designated as The Corridor's police force had been adorned with a white "MP". Their only goal, as anything else was too dangerous a gambit for them to enforce themselves, was peacekeeping.

Though Rory had still defiantly wielded her halberd, even as her protests to the requisitions department for an MG3 she had discovered in her own learning of Earth's history intensified, the weapons provided to the MPs had been something of both a dangerous step forward, and yet a cautious step back, depending who you asked.

If the JSDF had defiantly, without consideration of the USMC, continued to start prepping to arm the locals that had aligned themselves with the JSDF and the Men in Green, the 7th MEU had figured might as well do it on their terms, from a corps who had seen these disastrous efforts before.

Granted this time the Army hadn't blended back into the local populace. That was one of the leading causes of the Iraqi insurgencies following 2003: angry people, still fully equipped with no more leaders, going home and fighting their own wars against an America. Not as a state, but rather, a personal war.

A dangerous prospect that did not exist here, as Colonel Pierce told himself as he greenlit the order.

America had been an arms dealer all the same in 2029 as it had been in the 1970s, so when the first efforts was made to arm the MPs with firearms, the Americans stepped up to the plate on behalf of the JSDF, free of charge: single shot rifles from Thompson/Center Firearms. The first order of fifty 5.56 chambered break action rifles had been the best bet the 7th could take in arming the locals: only five rounds allotted per patrol, one in the chamber included.

The rifle that this young woman accompanying Rory, a nick on her ear and a build of a bird on her legs, had carried in her arms like a hunter, cradling it, had been one of those rifles: wooden furniture and a low power optic. The extra bullets had been on her belt, none of them used.

She had been one of the only ones that had actually taken the rifles actually, the rest of the MPs rather scared of its power.

And that had been the inherent worth of a rifle of course: deterrence. The best weapon had been the one that didn't need to be fired, and that proved true today. Only one person had been shot by the MPs so far, and that was, arguably, on accident: a non-lethal affair stemming from the rifle accidently going off after he had already surrendered.

What was most important was that the order was maintained, despite how The Corridor had been bursting at its seams. The Marines had cautiously congratulated the JSDF on this move.

Maybe the people were, regardless of the equipment used to enforce it, used to this kind of order: an almost anarchy.

As long as Myui still owned Italica and nothing bad happened, it was a comfortable existence, this last month and into the foreseeable future.

The bird woman had kept her rifle at a half hinge, the fear of a god being put further into the rowdy man's soul as she had clacked the rifle up and made it lock, pointing it at the man.

"I haven't seen you around here before," Rory had warned. "Do you know who I am?"

"The priestess of Emroy!" he had quaked in his boots.

"If you want to play nice, you better go. Or if you want to pick a fight…."

The man had caught the point as he had ran off down the road into an alleyway. The MPs had been doing a good job, all things considered, especially since Rory had been one of the rallyers of the MPs.

"On patrol Rory?" Itami had led his group to the two MPs, the bird woman staying quiet as she ejected her golden round and caught it with magic, it being placed into her belt as she unlocked the rifle again, hanging it off her thin arms.

Wilbur remembered this girl from the prisoners. She had been one of Sergeant Masterson's take aways from the Battle of Italica. Most of those prisoners had been released with little incident, many raiders not having much grudge against the Special Task Force… or had either been mentally incapacitated from the horror they saw that day. Those victims had been sent back over the Gate to various mental wards.

War was the same in its horrors across time, and the care was still applicable.

"There are so many people coming and going lately. Always a few bad apples, but nothing we can't handle." she had simply stated, flipping her halberd and grounding it in the dirt.

Wilbur, man that had taken after Idris Elba's Bond as he was, had winked at the bird woman, a blush coming across her face as she turned away. "Thanks anyway, Miss Mercury." he said. The woman had curtly bowed as she turned back to Itami.

"Out for dinner, Youji?"

A door had opened from that same tavern the man had been literally kicked out of: a bald headed man and a beautifully long haired woman poking out and waving in their uniforms of the Army Rangers and the JGSDF.

"Nah, we were called out."

* * *

"You're Doc, right?" Wilbur had been quick to introduce himself to the Canadian-American combat doctor of Hitman's squad.

"Last I checked yes. How you know?"

"Captain Emerson. He says you're fun to mess with, where is the captain anyway?"

Doc had rubbed his neck as he sniffled at the comment. He guessed it was true, admittedly. "The captain's been on assignment for the last two weeks in the Imperial Capital. Went back with Pina and the Japanese Ambassador. Hitman and RCT3 are going to rendezvous with him tomorrow. Why?"

"Just wondering. Thought he was buried underneath paperwork or some shit." Apparently now he was buried underneath responsibility, an assignment to the Imperial Capital not something to be taken lightly, even by Wilbur.

The drinks had been delivered to the wooden table inside of the tavern, Rory, Itami, Pops, Kurokawa, and Doc having been joined by Wilbur. They didn't mind the man, as much as Rory had raised an eyebrow at the new man, only recognizing after a wave and a smile, clasping her hands together as she gasped.

"Warlord!" she yelled, nearly jumping across the table to the man who had allowed her to ride his tank in the massacre a month ago.

"Yes! You stole my jacket!" Wilbur had responded with the same sort enthusiasm, albeit falsely.

"Did it get back to you?" she asked sincerely as Itami raised an eyebrow at the Englishman.

"Oh yeah, Emerson gave it back, but still, I like wearing this more." he referred to his cape. "Anyway, Itami." he motioned for whatever the lieutenant had been called for to start, not wanting to be rude.

Doc and Kurokawa had both nodded separately as they waited and looked out the window, expectantly. The two had been busy with the local populace moreso than the teachers, or the regulars out on the town. They had held them in dire moments, nursed people back to health and, seeing as the Japanese chapters of the Red Cross had come over and worked with extensively, they had been seen as "Angels from the Order of the Red Cross".

How strange, Wilbur had thought, that Red Cross had meant something else to people invading holy lands. The two of the medics had worn that red cross on their shoulders.

In terms of healthcare, during the initial lessons regarding medical and basic sanity health issues, Kurokawa proudly leading the way, some of the people had cried, knowing that it was possible for them to live to a hundred if they lived as the people in green and tanned lived: clean, healthily, and for each other.

To live long and healthy lives had been so much taken for granted back on Earth, it was all put back in perspective for people who could barely break fifty or sixty.

All put in perspective as children were given wheelchairs, better designed crutches, and, if able to, amputees given new legs and arms and hands that had moved: their phantom pain going away with limbs of metal and plastic that they had not feared as much as the guns made of the same material.

"Emerson told me about this first before Sergeant Kurokawa here approached me about Chuka." The elf in question had wandered into view, looking rather lost, eyes scanning the street. It didn't take Itami a medical degree to see the tick in her eye. Doc had ruffled his uniform collar to straight as he whistled sharply for a second, Chuka looking their way.

Rory smiled and waved. "Chuka! Looking for someone?" she said from the table and the window inside the tavern.

Chuka shyly put her hands behind her back and tilted her head. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Could it be a man?" Rory teased.

All the elf had done was shake her head as, for a second as she saw Itami, she froze, shivered, but then continued on her way with a friendly wave. She had been something of a clerk at the refugee housing for those that couldn't afford a place to stay, and was friendly and understanding enough to those who came.

Kurokawa had sighed heavily as she went off, accidently wiping away bangs that were not there anymore, but were slowly coming back. "She does that every day: wandering around town for her dead father every single night."

Doc had silently sipped at his mug before wagging a finger at the elf's direction. "And the kicker is she thinks her father is still alive… Me and Mari here didn't collaborate at first, seeing as we thought we were the only ones that knew, but before we started working together regarding all this I told Chuka her father was likely dead." he smacked his lips as he dozed off, pursing his lips as he remembered how it went.

"Yeah?" Itami pressed. "How'd she react?"

"Well I think the proper thing to say would be is that she didn't react at all. Asked me about how one of my patients was doing. So I told her again that her father was dead, and she just gave me this blank look, as if I said at nothing at all." Doc had said uncomfortably, even as a hardened medical man.

"When me and Decker here started working together on her when we could, I told him to not tell her that anymore, but what we're seeing here is some sort of dissociative disorder. Amnesia, I think, to be precise: the mind willingly disconnects itself from certain details of memories or entire memories in general in order to keep the person sane."

"That," and Doc had brought out his own phone, the cameras that Hitman had still worn bringing up footage of Italica: Ramirez's camera bringing up an image of Chuka, eyes mean and unkind, during her own contributions to the defense. "And she is showing signs of some kind of bipolar disorder. One day she's a killer, another she's nothing but a girl, sweet as fresh rain."

Doc's phone had slid to several pictures: of bloody knuckles on those white, thin hands of Chuka. "Occasionally she comes to us asking for bandages and hand wraps, says she hurt them while practicing her archery, but one of our street informants says she's been using one of the dragon corpses as a punching bag in the middle of the night." Kurokawa had explained.

Amazingly Doc had finished his ale. Man had been a heavy weight. "Captain Emerson says to defer our course of action regarding Miss Marceau to you, Lieutenant Itami. Said you know her better, says that she calls you father sometimes, under her breath."

"How long will we have to let her live like this?" Kurokawa had cut to the point.

Itami had gripped his beer mug as he had taken one drag of his cigarette, putting it out on the window frame as he considered the question. "I see where you're coming from but…" he groaned as he took a shy ship.

"Do we really need her to force her to accept reality?" Rory asked as she had drank. Doc hadn't exactly gotten used to the sight of her drinking, let alone Lelei. But then again Lelei had come from a different culture all together, while Rory had, in a sense, existed above culture.

"Of course she does," Kurokawa had said, almost sternly. "People can't live for the future without accepting reality, and Chuka is very much a part of the Special Region's future… all she's doing now is just wasting her time."

Doc had seen the frown Kurokawa had put on in the last of her statement, elbowing the drink slightly over to her. She however, declined the offer. Denying her reality wouldn't help anything.

Itami had looked over to Doc. "What about your prognosis, Doc?"

"I agree more or less with my compatriot in RCT3, lieutenant. However I've also had about five months to observe what losing family can do to a man. It's not pretty." Doc had been the one to finally drag Tracey away from his family in order for them to be zipped up in body bags, he had seen and felt the pain in his eyes as he had fought, and would continue to fight, reality itself to save his children, his wife. Chuka was capable of the very same, and perhaps that is where she was going: shitting in a bag while wrapped up in a straitjacket in some VA mental ward. "We gotta do something, and I've been discussing with several of the other Docs to get some therapy going for her, maybe even going through the remains the JSDF turned up when they made a base on her village to make her face the music."

The group had been silent for a minute, a Japanese thing, Wilbur had learned: these pauses of considerate thought, but eventually Itami had given his word, his own thoughts. "Say if we were all to get together and said to her: Chuka, your dad is dead. How do you think she'd feel? Even if we convinced her?"

Doc had shook his head. "I know full well, what would happen, Lieutenant Itami."

"Then you understand why, if any of you did it, you would take care of her. Whatever that means." Itami's face was that of an officer for once, arms on the table, a slight hint of a man acting his age behind his eyes. "And would you be able to set her up for a full life, if we left? Leaving her without us?"

It was a distinctly intelligent, albeit cruel thought from Itami. To the two Americans, a cruelly familiar one.

How many people had America left behind when Iraq fell again? When Saudi Arabia? The UAE? Israel? Lessons of a political past, applied to people.

"We're not going to be here forever." Itami said the wish, the hope, of a world that would go back to normal. The Americans knew better as they sipped back from their drinks because they needed it.

"Then you just want us to leave her?" Kurokawa had responded.

Everyone had thought Itami would say something not quite, that no, she didn't have to leave Chuka behind, but that was never the case. Not from an Itami who had taken smoking back up, seen thousands of men killed, and his mother burned alive after seeing his father killed.

There was much credit to give Itami still, but it was hard to stomach.

"Yes." was his answer. " _ **If you can't see something through to the end, then don't do anything.**_ "

Doc had looked into the records of Itami's mother, on how she was still in an asylum, a mangled mess of a human form, left by her own son as he went on in his life alone, without her. That is what he had meant, and that is what he had expected.

"Don't do anything?" Doc had made sure.

Itami had nodded as Kurokawa had gotten up, defeated. She had been in a lot of defeats in these days. "I'll be returning to base, lieutenant. Getting ready for tomorrow." and she bowed herself out, visibly upset.

Pops had followed her out, making sure she got home.

Doc had remained, thumbing the lip of his wooden mug, and staring into its emptiness. "You can't help them all." he nodded to himself, almost talking like a whisper. "Still don't make me feel any better about it." he stood up, saluted, and walked out behind the two other soldiers.

Wilbur had scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Are Hitman and RCT3 always so dramatic?"

"Eh, we're very well known. More people in your life the more complicated it gets." he responded as he crossed his legs and continued with his drink, nothing left to do but to do that until the sun went down. He waved for the maid to come over with another drink for Wilbur. "Dora! Another round please!"

"Of course, Master Itami!" she had happily responded, yellow tail wagging.

"I like them." Rory had simply said, glazing past the delicate topic of loss. "Itami's very nice to me.~"

At 960 years old, any mature person could surmise she had faced it before and lived. Not that she had a choice in the matter, but beneath her exterior as a loli, there was a wise woman literally beyond her years wise with tragedy and hope.

"Please," he said as he drank down more. "I don't have the energy to be nice to everyone."

"Still gotta help those you can, mate." Wilbur had said coldly.

"What do you mean, oilman?" Itami had asked.

"In my particular line of business you make a fortune by destroying the world. Turns out destroying the world means also destroying lives. I realized that too late. But I'm a simple man, so let me tell you that the only reason I'm here in this corps so I can get killed faster. Spare me the trouble of doing it myself." It had been a rather sobering statement to the two remaining patrons, but Wilbur had gone that over in his head over and over again, ever since had left the business ten years ago. He'd seen the world painted blacked with black gold and saw it alight with hellfire. All because of people like him.

Rory had chuckled, patting dirty brown hair on the man with a rather angular face. "Oh, you don't mean that."

"I have seen men drown in petrol, green fields boiled down to soot and ash because easy mistakes we make every day: water that burns the lungs. If I did not take responsibility for any of that in some way, I would be pretty damn sure you and me wouldn't get along so well."

"How so, Wlbur?"

"Death is waiting for me. That's why me and you talk like old friends."

Itami had only shook his head in disbelief. "Sounds like you're the one that needs therapy, Alton."

"Ah, well, maybe half of it is the alcohol talking."

The tavern had been in its rush hour essentially, and yet still, the three were left alone as they drank. "There's nothing wrong with what Itami says."

"Is there now?" the man in question prodded.

"All women want to be the "one" that a man devotes his niceness, his love to. Itami believes this very well, unfortunately." inebriated as she had been, she had leaned on Itami as Wilbur watched awkwardly from across. He had seen Itami's rather cheeky grin, but only for a few seconds as a hooded figure had kicked the back of his leg.

"What kind of degeneracy is this?! Do you let children drink here?!"

Wilbur had heard of Emerson being mistaken for a dark elf, so he thought he had been a tad racist when he thought this dark woman with purple lips and silver hair had been one. But as it turns out, she had been, and she was furiously looking at Itami. Furious enough that he had put a hand on his sword underneath his cape, it kept unseen as he turned around in his chair.

"The hell are you?" he had barked. She only had one ear exposed, one long bang of silver hair going all the way down to her chest: a rather not well hidden chest underneath her black cloak. He had been to Iraq enough to see how weathered they'd been by travel.

"My name is Yao Ha Ducy."

The crowd in the bar had frozen and looked at the lot of them, murmurings of how that dark elf was about to get her ass kicked by calling the reaper a kid.

Rory simply clapsed her hands on the table as Itami was recovering from the pain. "What are you doing here? Dark elf."

"I am the daughter of Dehan of Clan Ducy from the Schwartz Woods." Wilbur's eyes had widened in that instant. "I've heard that one of the Green People is here and have come to speak with them."

"Green people?" Rory asked, feigning ignorance.

Wilbur said nothing as, technically, he was one of the Men in Tan. The Iraq War era camouflage had been doing them wonders. "You there," Yao had said, turning her fierce attention to Itami. "Why are you getting this girl drunk? And why are you just watching?"

Wilbur had grinded his teeth together as he stayed silent.

"You guys aren't some sort of perverted pair, are you?"

For whatever reason, Rory had jumped out of her chair like a scared child, the bar holding their breath as she cried and ran over to the dark elf. "Please save me! These men keep making me drink! And they'll say they will show me their big house later!"

 _ **"Nani?!"**_ Itami had been as surprised as Wilbur as he had also gotten up.

"I knew it!" Yao's righteousness for the rights of children had been admirable, albeit misguided as Rory had stuck a tongue out at Wilbur when she hadn't been looking. "You were going to take advantage of her after she passed out!"

"I don't know what the hell you're going on about, lady, but I had no such intention!"

"You were going to make me your play thing!" Rory cried at Wilbur as he had backed off. The elf had looked back at Rory as she cried, but in that moment Itami had jumped out the window, leaving some cash on the table and Wilbur in a rock and a hard place, Yao drawing her sword.

Naturally, Wilbur drew his.

"That girl is _**900 years old**_ and _**she is a liar**_ miss!" Wilbur had pointed at the dark elf as her saber was brought to point at him, Wilbur damning Itami however he vocally could.

"I shall take care of you coward and administer your punishment. Right. Here."

" _ **Son of a bitch!**_ "

When Yao had dashed forward Rory had also gone out the front door, the bar clearing the area that Wilbur and Yao had been in as they had, unbelievably, clashed swords and were brought chest to chest.

A kick to his stomach had sent him back into the VIP section, and onto his back, but before he could've been impaled he had rolled over under a table, the elf's sword stuck in the wood as he raised up with the table and rushed at her, pining her down on the ground back first. The grip hadn't been good enough so she had been able to roll out in turn, taking her sword with her as the two stood: dueling.

Wilbur had no intention of being the first casualty of the Special Region Task Force, but he also had no intention of killing someone so well-mannered in her murderous ways.

She had rushed forward with the sword out like a pike, Wilbur side stepping it as he tossed his sword into his left hand, running the blade across hers as it had clanged on the grip, the pivot it had created letting Wilbur force both swords up and out of their hands as he had sidestepped again and punted her with his shoulder into a post of the building.

They would've fought more, but that bunny woman had come and stomped him down to the ground as several of the better intentioned patrons held the dark elf down.

"God dammit! I wasn't going to cock some kid! She ain't even a kid!" Wilbur screamed from the ground as the two adversaries actually were toe to toe, albeit facing opposite directions.

"That's what you must think you degenerate!" she yelled back.

" _ **Shut the fuck up!**_ "

Of all the vernacular that the people of The Corridor had learned, the American curses had been among them, the bunny woman booming out with her vocals as she had liberally taken a handful of gold from Wilbur's pocket. "For damages," she said as Wilbur and the dark elf were carried out and thrown to the dirt. "And piss off!"

Of course the second they had been free from the grip of the tavern they had been right at each other's necks again, on the ground with each other, as awkward as that had looked coming out of a tavern, Wilbur's cape covering them both as they struggled, body to body.

"I ain't trying to diddle no girl!" he had said as she dug her nailed into his neck and he had grabbed her ears and pulled.

"I don't believe that!" she squeezed harder on his neck, but only enough for Wilbur to place his hands around hers and squeeze too.

"You kill me! The Green People will hate you!"

"Liar!" she grabbed tighter, as did he, talking and breathing both becoming a notedly hard prospect, foreheads touching and grinding into each other.

"The people in green! Not the green people! You just scared one off!"

"Hughk- Liar!"

"Sod off!" Wilbur had yelled, bringing his head up once, but only to bring it back down in a smack against her own, the two dazed enough to get off each other, Wilbur taking enough distance between them for him to get at least some words out before he had ended up sounding like Sergeant Bannon.

Even as they stumbled up though they had locked arms in something of a grip, still intent on taking out the other on the street as a crowd formed around them, not an MP, or any of the Special Task Force in sight.

"How can I make you believe I'm not a liar!" Wilbur yelled in her face as he had dodged a response head butt.

"Tell me what the green people look like!" she yelled back as their struggled had, minutely, softened.

"Pale whitish, black hair usually, green clothes with odd formations on them. Men and women. All of them have two pieces of metal beneath their shirt."

"How do you know this?!" she yelled still, their foreheads gridning together again as they both breathed like bulls.

"Check under my shirt. You'll see I know them."

Wasn't the first time in his life that a woman had gone down his shirt, but she did, yanking out his chain, his tags, and his name. With that, the struggle had stopped, but the tension remained as she held onto to the silver metal and felt a language she did not understand stenciled into it.

"I'm not one of the men in green, but I can help you, okay?" Wilbur had choked out as he felt blood around her nail marks. "Just- just god damn understand I didn't want to fuck Rory the Reaper, okay?"

"I don't care what you do as long as you lead me to the green people."

* * *

Wasn't the most flattering thing to have been tied, hand to hand, with the traveler, dragged outside of The Corridor, and propped down in the forest with her overlooking Arnus Base.

That's what Wilbur had thought as he had promised to introduce her to the men in green, but only in the morning, seeing as the base was closed down to both Americans that hadn't been on the inside already and civilians overnight.

It was the bad news he had to break, and with that, he had to deal with the repercussions of spending the night in nature with a woman he had just been at the throat at a few hours prior, tied to a tree as she had rested out of his reach, her back to him.

Needless to say Wilbur hadn't been able to sleep, though the same had gone with the dark elf.

"Your name is Yao, right?"

All he had heard was her grumble as she turned over on her makeshift pillow: her bag. It was a travelling bag, a large one, given the distance she had walked. In fact Wilbur had known the distance distinctively, one of the many geological probes and UAVs had dug themselves in the ground in the Schwartz Forest, and what had been the results of those probes had only been privy to him, the other oil surveyors, and the 7th MEU Command that had been Pierce and Sevson.

She looked at him with blood red eyes that had shined in the night, lit by the purple spirits of the forest that came from the ground.

"Name's Wilbur. Alton Wilbur." he said passively, tiredly, the rope bindings not exactly easy on his chest.

"… Yes. My name is Yao. Yao Ha Ducy."

"Hardy believer, aren't ya?" he had noted her middle name. Middle names had often, in this world, referred to the deities that a person had taken as their patron saint. To believe in Rory, for example, would make her name Yao Ro Ducy. To believe in Jesus Christ would make Wilbur's own name Alton Jesu Wilbur. Not that he had gone to that extent as a "convenient" Christian.

The world on the outside had not taken the existence of Rory, or Lelei's magic for that matter, very well spiritually, and indeed Hitman's bus had been rammed into by such an extremist Christian group meaning to kill what some considered the Anti-Christ: Rory.

Pagan and Satanic rituals had a resurgence, trying to call upon the magic Lelei had used seeing as magic did exist, and indeed there had been the naysayers who, much like their opinion regarding the moon landings, had dismissed the three refugees as works of art and subterfuge.

The fact that civilians were able to come over, albeit under strict rules, had been breaking down those conspiracies and promptly making mankind as a whole doubt its own sanity as aid personnel and contractors shook hands with talking dogs, saw magic before their very eyes, and saw a people in the past.

Indeed the Gate, Alpha Point, had been becoming something of a Mecca to the increasingly deteriorating condition of Ginza as just a district in Tokyo. Still, it was a better Mecca than Mecca was, Islam having lost its holiest site when Saudi Arabia fell apart and was buried to the sands of time and war when global warming and climate change blew a new stream of winds from the Sahara into the Middle East, fueling the anarchy that the region burned on until death.

That being said, the most believing in the Islamic faith had still gone out every year on Hajj into the sand of time to try and dig up the Kaaba. Not that there was a Saudi Government left to help them.

Radical Islam, and indeed, any radical religious fervor fueling a conflict had been an ugly prospect that the Japanese were facing for the first time in the wake of the Ginza Incident. The fact that Rory's had been the patron saint of the literal cult of death had actually spurred murders in Tokyo and mass blood drawing sessions before the Gate. Unlike the Gods and religions of centuries past, Rory had been alive, in the flesh, and the people believed what they saw.

"What of it?" she asked annoyed.

"Ah, nothing. Just don't know if Hardy would appreciate the fact you saved Rory."

"…Who?" she had sat up, level to level with Wilbur as he had recalled.

"You know. Emroy's representative. Don't know who represents Hardy as of present, but Rory was that little girl that you thought I was gonna have a time with."

She raised an eyebrow at him concerned, the cycle of her calling him a liar about to go on and on as it had. But she held in her tongue this time. "…Then I should've just left her with you. You would've been dealt with."

Wilbur had shook his head fast. "Ah, course not. Rory's a friend. Sorta. Kinda. Probably sold me out though to save the other guy though. The man in green…." her face had gotten angry at the fact, but Wilbur had sucked in a breath and spat out to save his skin. "It's alright though! Like, 90% of the people here meet Itami like this. Swear to the gods!"

"Itami?" she had tried the foreign name on her tongue.

"Yeah. Itami." Wilbur repeated. "As a man in green as anything. Or rather, THE man in green. Depends how you look at it… why are you looking for them, Miss Ducy?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but his question had been sincere as he had been. "Alton." she said his name.

"Yao." he repeated hers.

"What is your relation with the men in green?" Her words, her body language, her eyes had all told the tale of a woman on a mission. Anything else wasn't important, but it was a fair state of being, all things considered in the world they lived in.

Alton licked his lips as he had looked off toward Arnus through the forest. "Comrades. Allies. The only thing different between them and me is the color we wear when we're in uniform."

"Is it?" she asked, reaching for his chest again and pulling out the dog tags.

The woman had been a beauty he had more than noticed.

"Rhetoric. Semantics. We're all only human in the end of it."

"What do you mean human?"

Wilbur had gulped back a breath as his dog tags had rested on his grey shirt, his cape and sword all having been discarded, leaving him only with his duty uniform.

"Suppose that saying doesn't work here… Uhm, well, I just mean to say we're working together. Is all."

She had moved back a bit, resting on her arms in that sleepless night of purple and a blue night, courtesy of the moon. "So if I tell you my woes, you will help me as the green people would?"

"I'm no leader, but you can run the idea by me. Promise I won't lie about what I think about it."

"Then tell me why you are here, with them."

"Revenge, retribution, justice against the Empire. Depends who you ask. But at the end of the day we're all here on a mission. Same as you, apparently." Wilbur had prayed his understanding of the common language was good enough that Yao had understood, and she did.

"Revenge against what?" she asked.

"A few American citizens were killed when the Empire showed up in the green people's land. It was in our interest to join in."

"Did you lose any personnel friends?"

"What? No. Just my responsibility I suppose."

"Responsibility. Is that the real reason why you're here then?"

"…Suppose you could tell yourself that… now why are you here again?"

"Same reason you are: ** _revenge_**."

* * *

Wilbur had heard the stories of RCT3 and their Hitman detachment taking on that legendary flame dragon. Indeed the entire world had when it was brought up during the Diet hearings a month ago: Emerson, Itami, and the two other RCT3 members present detailing the effects of their weapons against such a large target.

Given more ammo, more gonads, he had reckoned they could've killed the dragon. But alas Staff Sergeant Masterson's Carl Gustav had only been loaded with training rounds by fluke and Staff Sergeant Bannon had only carried enough M72s for the three of them for one shot: the JSDF Panzerfaust on hand having only one round.

But still the fact remained: a platoon sized force with infantry weapons was able to, according to the post-action report, maim, eviscerate, mentally lobotomize, and force a supposed "legendary" dragon out of action.

It was with that power that Yao had wanted against the same target, and this time to finish the job.

That dragon had survived, according to her, a constant question which, between the Battle of Italica, the establishing of several more forward bases, and The Corridor coming alive, was left unanswered by the busy Special Task Force. That was until today of course with the tragedy that Yao had told Wilbur in the dark of night:

That dragon had crawled its way through Schwartz Woods, and, although without flight, half of its mental capacities, losing its vision, and a no right arm, it had crawled through the place and completely decimated the Dehan Clan of the Schwartz Woods with little trouble.

But Emerson's wish for word to be spread about the Special Task Force had traveled with the refugees, and indeed, stories of weapons shaped like great metal cocks and explosive spells to the sound of "clir mai bak blas" had coincided with the decimation of a legendary being that had been that flame dragon.

It was a story enough that the Dehan Clan had sent out Yao to look for their help with the last of their resources, wealth, and even her body if needed, to pay for such help.

"Lost your fiancé in it?" Wilbur had reiterated her own personal whys.

It was as a sob story as any. Elves with dead loved ones seemed to be in great supply, Wilbur had noted. Of how her village was destroyed, their hunting grounds burnt and destroyed, how people slowly started embracing Hardy and accepting sweet death.

How she, a wise as they came, as beautiful, as sincere (not that Wilbur believed outright two of those three details), was chosen to make the request of the green people, and sell herself if all else failed.

She winced and ignored the question as she continued. "Can you kill the dragon? Can anyone you know?"

Kingdom Come, and all the Abrams tanks, had started being worshipped as something as monuments: beasts of manmade creation that had done unholy acts in ways that even Rory grew jealous of. The power they exhibited, the pure unfeeling ways of a tank in battle, he had known it best and knew what to say to her.

"Yes." was his simply answer. "In fact, I know the people who did it!"

The ropes had come undone as he had been embraced in the dark of night by a woman that had tried to hold him down before to kill him.

He had only lightly patted her back as he just took it.

"But as I said, I am not a leader, and things will get complicated, and I cannot speak for the people in green, or the people in tan." he had said quickly, but she had ignored it as she broke down into his shoulder, ignoring those details, wanting to hear the answer from a man she had barely known that would save her village. "Still. I want to help you."

" _ **You can't help them all…**_ " Wilbur had remembered Hitman's combat medic's words. But damned if he didn't have any inclination as an individual with an iota of empathy to want to help this dark elf.

"Seriously." Wilbur had choked out as he got the ropes off of him with a little shuffling, Yao still holding him. "I can't promise anything."

However he had mistaken the sobbing for actual tears of joy, but as he realized what was going on to his shoulder he had only rubbed circles into her back and stared into the forest.

Clean air, green grass and leaves, healthy dirt, the smell of a forest alive. His appreciation for the purity of the Special Region had been without understatement, and it itself had brought him to tears to think of a forest like this destroyed. "This is a good forest, ain't it?" he said idly, letting the woman have her tears.

In her language, all she could croak out was something Wilbur could not translate. _"The rumors were true."_

* * *

 _ **Five months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 43**_

 _ **The Special Region – Joint Airbase Arnus**_

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Matthew "BlueWay" Noelle had been one of many of the 2nd Korean War veterans who had been slowly making their way past the Gate in order to add onto the Special Task Force. The Japanese had been long and away been ignoring the initial troop counts, and thus the Marines had done so as well, the USMC mobilizing the VMFA-118: a Marine fighter attack squadron decked out with, as per the current equipment cut off, multirole F/A-18Cs that had seen the first Iraq War and renovated for operations in the Special Region.

American air power had always been the undisputed master of modern warfare, and seeing as the capabilities to deploy UAVs and drones hadn't been ready yet in the Special Region, fighter pilots had been called forth, both from the Marines, and, in the case of the AC-130 gunship with appropriate support aircraft, the US Air Force.

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle's helmet had been put on after he had ran his thumb across his river blue paint job: his call sign that of a man who had accidently almost drowned in an actual blue way to the tease of his squadron.

He hadn't hated climbing into the Hornet, it was a fine aircraft, but at the end of the day the F-35B he had been trained and flown during the 2nd Korean War was his main ride, and downgrading to Cold War era designs had felt less nostalgic and more degrading.

Still, he didn't complain as the canopy pressurized around him after flipping a switch. He was going to practice in this aircraft today and he would be insulting his nose art of nineteen red stars if he didn't mock splash the JSDF who came up with him today.

Each star had been a Korean MiG he had shot down, and having at least five of them had meant he was an ace.

The early morning's forecast had been good, and although he had heard the Japanese bellyache about sharing the open sky with Americans (as if they couldn't escape them) he would tell them to buck up or shut up as the crew had gotten the blocks off of his wheels and he rolled onto the tarmac of the base.

The JSDF's pilots had a point though. The Special Region was something else: a clear blue, unpolluted, and generally safe sky to fly. Today's dawn was no different to that.

The JSDF's pre Iraq War inventory hadn't been as impressive as the American inventory at the time in regards to aircraft: budget constraints pushing them to only deploy a flight of F-4EJ Phantoms.

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle could appreciate the sea blue paintjob of them, the red sun still on their wing tips as one of the WSO's flicked Noelle off as he passed them.

"This is Mobius Actual. Taxing onto runway. Tower do I have take off clearance?" he said, watching his wingman take off already, contrails being left as he climbed into a gooey blue sky.

"Arnus Tower to Mobius One. Clear for take-off. General Hazama and Overlord do remind you to keep the airspace restrictions in mind this time around. How copy BlueWay? Over."

The man had chuckled as he had flipped a few switches surrounding his MFD, toying with his joystick and looking left and right for his stabilizers and aileron functions, slapping down his visor and activating his HMD, spinning up his gun and checking his weapon systems. Preflight checks had always been so therapeutic to him.

"If this "Lord Duran" wants to keep his air space clear, how about he send up a few dragons to meet me, eh? Over." The man had wanted to paint dragon kill marks so badly. He had been jealous of the Harrier pilots.

"…. I repeat, Mobius Lead, keep your sortie today within established AO. How copy?"

"… Mobius Actual copies all tower. Mobius Lead, taking off. Out." the whine of jet engines had long been in his ears, but the Lieutenant Colonel had always appreciated the sound that the afterburner had made, even if he had been a little out of order using it to take off, his body sinking into his seat.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – 2 km from Arnus**_

* * *

The sound of thunder.

It had spurred Yao awake with another grab at a finally asleep Wilbur's throat as he had waken up also in shock.

An automatic reaction, not at all within the context that Yao had fallen asleep on Wilbur.

He really couldn't move, or was one to complain as he had gasped for air and trying to get him out of shock.

Of course the death grip didn't last long as both of them backed off and stood, realizing it was morning, and Wilbur realizing what that sound was, looking up as a pair of F/A-18 Hornets buzzed the forest, another pair of F-4s in hot pursuit.

That had brought further tears into Yao's eyes. Some of the answer finding her, most because the rush of air that came through with the jet wash, Wilbur taking her shoulders to steady her.

"God damn bellend fly boys." Wilbur's own sensibilities and, much more prevalent, uneasy stomach in flight, had been why he had chosen to be a tanker. He shook his head as the thunder stopped, pointing up at the pair of four aircraft climbing toward the sun: "See that, Yao? If we're allowed to, those things will probably fuck up that dragon of yours real quick."

"If we're allowed…?" she had said, bringing some of her clothes that she had taken off during the night on again, bringing up some much needed modesty.

Wilbur had rubbed his forehead groggily. "Oi. Always the small details…. Come on, let's get down there. Might be able to catch breakfast with Overlord."

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Angels Six**_

* * *

What the F-4 had on the Marine Corps fighters on thrust and speed, the F-18 had on maneuverability and weight. Not that BlueWay had appreciated in a gut crushing vertical climb, trying to beat out the F-4s behind him trying to simulate a kill.

Game was on, seeing as his wingman had been "shot down" by the F-4s.

Japan had seen a lot of its fighter pilots gain some veterancy and experience when Korea was unified and responding to Chinese expansionism in South East Asia.

The man had been making hiccup sounds as he, almost into a stall, had jerked his stick back into an inverted loop, the G-forces almost getting to him as the F-4 and the F-18 had been cockpit to cockpit in two different directions.

He compressed his index finger as he had seen the trailing F-4 on the way down, the sudden maneuver making the F-4 blink and come out of the climb as well, now on the jet's tail as simulated gunfire sprang in front of his HMD and HUD, a giant DESTROYED, throwing across his HUD as the F-4 in front of him was tagged as destroyed, much to the detriment of its pilot.

"Dammit Mizuhara! Where the hell were you!?" the splashed F-4 had screamed over the radio.

"About to avenge you!"

Sloppy comms had reminded him that the F-4 had gotten out of the c limb and doubled back around, trailing him in that wide blue sky as the simulated gun bullets whizzed by his VR display, but none aiming true enough for him to go down, hitting the air brake and then falling down to the sky again in a half inverted loop.

BlueWay had grinned as the F-4 took the bait, the sound of a heatseaker on the IWR going dead as the simulated missile instead mistook the ground scatter heat for him, the F-4 backing off on his tail as he had turned within him, sharp contrails being drawn by his plane, creating a smoky circle in the sky as the F-4 struggled to both turn with the F-18 and to accelerate at the same time.

The old Phantom had strained as its metal creaked, but no more damage was done as the more Nimble F-18 squeezed off a few seconds of fake rounds into the F-4, missing, but the loop continuing all the way down to the ground.

It was a hot day today, humid as it was, and the quick descent from six thousand feet to six hundred feet had made the cockpit of the F-4 fog up immediately with precipitation, BlueWay seeing his plan realized as he had pressed his air conditioning dump, the F-4 pulling up and giving him a wide target: its full silhouette.

Pulling the trigger had peppered the aircraft as dead to the VR systems that had intertwined with the HUD software.

The Phantom had leveled off in flight as they returned to Angels 5, the downed aircraft coming alive again and leveled off each other's wings. "You can't dogfight in an F-4, 680, 320." BlueWay's wingman had chided the two F-4s. "F-4 was never designed to be a fighter in my opinion. Interceptor and attack aircraft. Way too fat, way too fast, better off using the Sparrows for stand off."

"We're fighting against aircraft with twenty years on us, with god damn too good ECM, in VR!" as was 680's bellyaching.

BlueWay had simply kept quiet as the adrenaline had rushed out of him, his wingman more than happy to argue with the four JSDF pilots as he heard a buzzing from Arnus Tower.

"Arnus to 680, 320, Mobius Lead and Two. Over."

The senior member of the flight had responded. "Mobius Lead here Arnus, go ahead."

"Be advised, request an escort of one heavy helo egressing toward Italica from Arnus for refuel and rearm and then to the mountains, how copy flight?"

"Roger. Escort of one heavy egressing toward Italica then bouncing to the mountains. Will be on station over Arnus in five mikes. Over."

"Thanks Mobius. Arnus Out."

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle had only tapped on his helmet as he looked in the direction of Arnus, it just over the horizon and underneath the clouds of their little playful engagement that had chalked up as training. Now was for time for some actual on the job flying.

Not like fuel was cheap anyway.

"Flight, push for bearing zero-four-zero. Hold above the airfield. We've got an escort."

Five minutes later and the lone Chinook helicopter had taken off from Arnus, the four aircraft following in its wake at its level.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Arnus Hill**_

* * *

Yao had broken out running before Wilbur could stop her, running toward three of the JSDF before he had explained that not everyone had been as fluent in the common tongue as him. His was only so good because it had been damned hard to order good food or get into pub brawls when no one understood what the hell he was saying.

Not that the food itself was anything to write home about.

Soldiers across both services had been writing letters as all soldiers did in war, and the first of the media and the packeted information about the Region had been slowly getting out in controlled reports: detail a thousand things like the species, the wildlife, the dirt and the sky. It had been a treasure trove for scientists who had wanted to conduct experiments in a world largely unpolluted by an industrial society, and many had been trying to get over, but for now, the only civilians would be contractors and aid workers.

One such aid worker from the Red Cross had been chatting with the three guards as Yao scrambled to them, a soldier taking the woman and placing her behind him just in case.

And Yao had stopped just short of them out of breath, spilling her heart, her story, her request to them with panicked tongue. "Tell me! Are you the green people?!"

The people in green had only looked among each other, confused, she talking too fast for even their basic understanding to help. "I beg you! Please! Please help!"

Wilbur had walked up behind her, face in his palm and shook.

"Anyone here speak English?" he said to the guards, the woman poking out. He knew Japanese just as well as he did the common language, but he didn't have the mind to do it right now.

"Yeah." she waved at Wilbur, recognizing the greyed stars and stripes on his combat shirt's shoulder. "Do something unsavory to this girl, sir?"

Wilbur had shook his head. "No. She just has to pass some information along to the commanders."

The aid woman had explained to the soldiers, and they nodded. They didn't have any orders to stop American military personnel from getting in, after all.

"Thanks miss." he said as he passed curtly, taking Yao's hand as she had looked behind them at the group of four, unknowing on why they hadn't answer her. "And you, don't run off. Last thing we need is you spattering nonsense all over the field."

"Why couldn't they-?"

"Can't speak your language. Hell, even I'm getting a little fuzzy with your details. Just calm down. I got the gist of it." he said as he moved his hand from her palm to her wrist, taking her slowly across Arnus to the mess hall.

What she had seen there had been the same story for every Special Region resident who laid eyes on the modern military powers that had been the USMC and the JSDF: flying swords, arks, houses, metal beasts and thousands and thousands of magic users who were liable to blow people's heads off with only a wag of their finger.

Even the pride in such military might had been getting old to said soldiers… at least, to the people in the general area around Arnus. The Americans had been raring to go at the Imperial Capital to do what needed to be done, but orders from Japan had said only to consolidate the territory and broker for peace.

As if peace was what was on the mind of the Empire.

"Who are you people?"

"Of all those rumors you got, you at least heard the one where we've jumped from one world to the next, right?" Wilbur had stopped before the Gate, it still sealed up in its iron dome.

"Well, yes, but that doesn't really matter."

"Usually doesn't matter at all. Knackered as it is…" A few of the JSDF personnel had been looking at the lone American dragging a dark elf across base, all of them having known of Chuka and her apparent infatuation of sort with Itami, so they had taken notice when an American had seemed to have one of his own that clung to him.

But the first American from Assassin Company had noticed Wilbur rightfully, following him and, after a brief exchange of "cut the bullshit" had escorted him to the mess hall as Colonel Pierce had been enjoying his breakfast of cereal and milk with his personal escort squad.

Wilbur saluted, Pierce saluting as he looked up at him and the elf before, without saying a word, inviting them to sit across from them as the squad had locked down the entrance.

"Friend with benefit, Alton?" Pierce referred to the oilman by name.

Wilbur had flared his nose for a second and shook his head. "Maybe another time, colonel, but I wanted to come to you with her first before we went to General Hazama."

"Found another deposit? She did?" he asked, pointing to her, looking straight through Yao with blue eyes she had never seen before, frozen.

"No." Wilbur had said bluntly. "Still looking though."

"Ah. Then what's the issue?"

"Itami and Emerson's wounded dragon crawled through her village some time ago. Destroyed most of it, and going off the rumors that we were here, wanted us to finish the job."

Pierce had crossed his arms and ran his tongue across his white teeth, half of them real, the other half dentures. Looking at this dark elf, he hadn't thought much of her, appearances asides. Yao had known it was a studying gaze though, so she had voluntarily opened her cloak a bit revealing two things: herself, and a wrapped up gemstone about the size of his head.

Naturally he had raised an eyebrow at the glowing blue gem: adammite, as it was called in The Special Region. Enough to buy a piece of Italica to his guess.

But the US Military couldn't be bought as Yao spat words from her mouth fast in a begging tone, neither Pierce, any of his men, or Wilbur able to translate.

"Calm down, honey. Wilbur, where is her village?"

Wilbur had sucked in his cheeks at that question. The most complicated part: "Well you see, it's in an area that's not actually part of the Empire… Lord Duran's domain. Kingdom of Elbe, I think it's called."

Overlord had nodded his grey haired head up and down thoughtfully, crossing his arms, but taking one hand out and wagging his finger at Wilbur.

"Now I understand these elves live in forest villages usually, and down there, there's only one forest of any particular note. She from where I think she's from?"

"Schwartz? Yeah."

Pierce had leaned back and taken a Cheerio in between his index and thumb, running it over as he considered what that place was to his troops, to him. "Technically that place, although no one had stated it yet, represents a noted interest of the United States Government just in case of Contingency Base-Zero. In a sane world we would be able to go down there with little complaint. We could deal with the political bickering later, not too different from how we handled Bin Laden, so I remember. But here the Japanese rule, no matter what I say I cannot deploy without Hazama's clearance."

He had been using his index finger to tape against the faux wood table notedly after eating the cereal piece, Yao not understanding what he was saying.

"Dragon's wounded sir. Mercy killing if anything, so she told me." Wilbur stated. "Also just an animal."

"The Marine Corps doesn't deal with pest control."

"How about international threats?"

Pierce shook his head as he had finished up his glass of milk. "Look, Sergeant, you know sure as shit as me we can deal with that dragon like any other milk run op. Just a matter of making sure the Japanese feel like they're doing something too, and not overstepping them. That several hundred ton pain in the ass that's sitting on the tarmac ain't doing me any favors…. wait a second, why did you come straight to me instead of taking it up the chain of command?"

Wilbur had patted the gem that had less than impressed the colonel, non-verbally telling her to put it away, she looking at him with something of a look that read: despair.

"This is time sensitive, I think. With what an entire people dying."

The eyes of Overlord had been eyes indescribable to many in the service, how they had stayed son young despite the fact the man had gotten old by age and by war was a mystery to many. Eyes, in many cultures, were windows to the soul, and this was true as he shot his crystal blues between the Englishman and the dark elf.

People dying had often been a time sensitive affair, so, with one last crunch of his cereal he had relented.

He motioned over for one of the Marines. "Tell Hazama to meet me in the conference room in thirty mikes and get Miss Lelena for us. If we're gonna do this, we gotta get a clear picture."

* * *

As a proud tank commander of, as estimated during the Battle of Italica, around twelve thousand killed by Kingdom Come alone (a maddening number that had made the Korean War vets seriously consider just stopping while they were ahead with whatever mental illness was brewing inside of them) Wilbur had thought he was qualified to know what an explosive projectile had sounded and felt like as he had flinched and held his M4 tight as the pond that Lelei and her mentor were practicing near had been dislocated, sent up into the air, and sent down to the ground in a maddening pour after a maddening explosion.

Not that Lelei, the ever busy new co-owner of Italica (not that anyone could tell with Bannon running the property behind the scenes), was concerned about it.

She had made it, after all.

She had turned, drenched, but unphased, as Wilbur and two of Pierce's Marines had shook their own heads dry.

"God dang, lady, I'm sure Itami and his boys woulda liked to see that used at Italica." a Marine said.

"But they did."

As was the entire reason why the South Wall had gone up like it did with several judicious placements of C4.

Lelei's take away from the trip to Japan a month ago had been great for her, all of it culminating in the laptop she had set on a rock a few feet away, covered perpetually by one of her magical shields from wear, tear, and pond water gone askew. Inside of it having been a thousand different reading materials and, amazingly, wi-fi capability that the Marines had rejoiced over when it had been set up on The Corridor.

She had been a very busy, and as usual, very blue little bug. That much Wilbur, as much as he hadn't known her, had figured out as he had looked at the laptop and her staff: one single nine millimeter round in it.

It was too interesting not to ask.

"What the hell was that, if I can ask?" Wilbur had said as he ran his handkerchief over his face to dry it.

She had shook herself dry after a blast of the mystical energy did most of it for her, Cato's mouth agape as he had witnessed his young apprentice summon a new type of energy he had not taught.

"My use of the concept of "detonation" with my own abilities to affect the environment around me."

"So you can just summon high explosive detonations?" Wilbur asked with concerned.

"My master has taught me the usage of something I call a "false principle" all my life in order to explain and develop my magic abilities." she had used her hand motions to conjur up a bright light in her palm. "This, in his explanation, would be me gathering the burning element from the air and using my inherent magical ability to combust it like so." she pushed the ball out to Wilbur's face and it popped, the man flinching just for a second as the Marines raised an eyebrow to this.

The US Military's stance on magic, and it had driven the Pentagon mad that there was such a thing now, was that it had been as dangerous a threat, just short of WMDs if the stories were to be believed. Perhaps not in the widespread, militarily threatening sense, but on a case by case basis, much like, in a sense, suicide bombers. Able to freeze men, scatter their brains, immolate them, put them to sleep, and extract information out of them with nothing more than a few words spoken and an occasional hand gesture.

That hadn't just been the extent of their powers, but it was what Lelei had explained in the days following her return. Among those choice topics had been an elaboration of the Empire's ability to create a form of chemical weapons.

Even in Roman times the use of pathogens and infected corpses to lay siege to cities had been a threat, and the Empire had done such things before, but what had been the more frightening thing was something that both Lelei and Chuka had been able to preform as magic users: It had been something as a cross between a sleeping spell and area of effect technique that had amplified a power's range to well within a city block or two, and, if a magic user had a simple bottle of Tabun at their disposal, highly toxic chemicals could be placed within a person's lungs with no alert, and as such, people would breath themselves to agonizing death.

It was a technique Lelei had heard about from the forbidden arts of her particular school of magic, and indeed it had been a highly kept secret of the Empire. It was a technique that had simply caused too much collateral, but a desperate enemy would always revitalize old projects, as Nazi Germany did, and with such a technique still in play if it was ever brought up, Lelei had hypothesized new concoctions and chemical potions would be produced by the Empire to fight against the world pushing back against him.

That is if he had a reason to use it.

It wasn't exactly the WMD that the Diet had thought that it was, but it was still enough to propel Overlord to mount all his troops from Italica to roll on the Imperial Capital in short order, no matter the case.

But as it stood, according to Emerson's letters back through Pina, he had observed "no such development taking place".

Still, this was a new development from Lelei. "If that's false, what do you understand as true?" a Marine had asked, ejecting a round upon her prompting from his M16.

She had taken it with her magic, making it float through midair with her palm before she had held it, disassembling it: powder, casing, and bullet.

"Such a reaction takes place upon an ignition, the mechanisms of the rifle, sparking the propellant and fuel source inside of this bullet." She closed her palm and the five five six round had been made whole again, it being thrown back to the Marine as he put it back in the chamber. "My demonstration is as such, without the projectile using that reaction as a force… Is that not a correct view of the true principal?"

Wilbur had shaken his head. "Not sure if I want to tell you Miss Lelei."

"So yes."

"Eh."

"Do not worry, Sergeant. Only magic users who have understood it as I had will be able to do as I do. And I doubt that many others would be comprehend on their own." she had said, her mentor offended, but he knew she was not incorrect.

"Lelei is still just a child." he admitted. "Children are much more able to understand concepts we adults cannot. And there would be sparse few older sages whom would able to turn to these "true principles" instead of what they had done all their lives."

"Is magic something I can- You know what, never mind." Wilbur had relented. "Miss Lelena, we need you to be a 'terp for a bit, if you don't mind… Would you mind?"

"Not at all, Sergeant."

"Thank you. We won't be long, Mister Atlestan." Lelei had gathered her laptop before she bowed before her master, and he had simply nodded as he got a pipe out and puffed away, thinking about how such a fiery principle had applied to his smoking device.

* * *

Rain. Wilbur had heard the thunder above as the AC-130 had been taxing for take-off, wanting to get in some flight in such conditions for practice. He had habitually gone for a hood he didn't have, but he grimaced as he had stepped back inside as Lelei was being an interpreter of Yao's story as Hazama and Pierce stood by.

Lieutenant General Hazama had been something of a poltical man. It was mutually agreed he had been a commander with his stripes, having fought with the ROK forces with his own JSDF task force to Korea when it all came tumbling down. North Korea had been one thing however, the Special Region and the Empire another.

Pierce had muttered under his mouth once after the meeting following the refugees return from Japan that the man had been a politician underneath the flag officer position, playing with the house when he was supposed to be dealing with the situation as is. If there was a threat of any sort of WMD deployment, they needed to go in, no ifs, ands, or butts. No amount of political bickering could make a threat of something able to melt people less deadly.

The threat was still there but Pierce had to swallow his urgency and stick with it.

It wasn't easy to stomach either.

Yanagida, the political lieutenant of Hazama's, had found Wilbur again staring out the window as he had waited to be called in.

"Oil man." he greeted.

"Kiss ass." Wilbur responded bluntly.

"Trust me, oil man, no acid rain here to ruin your day." The former surveyor had winced. The rush for Africa after the Middle East fell had not been understated. However the pollution and the fact that the Sahara had expanded almost to the north of the Congo had been.

Wilbur had been there however as a land was sucked bone dry: the spit having come back down as skin burning rain, he having gone through so many protective suits on the job for BP there, so long ago.

Here the sky had turned grey all the same, but the buildings didn't melt as exploratory drizzles came and went, making the ground wet, but not muddy, outside of Arnus.

"I think my day is going to be ruined in a different way, lieutenant."

"She's just one elf representing one tribe. Nothing more."

"And nothing less." Wilbur had coldly responded to the rather light statement the man made.

"Change of heart?" Yanagida had chided, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

"Who knows."

"Don't know who does. But I do know we'd be able to immediately help you, if, say, you tell us what makes Schwartz Woods so interesting to you American oil men, Sergeant."

"There's an interest?" Wilbur had feigned, taking in some nicotine gum to chew.

"Material interest, not man."

"Well, I guess we'll find out if there is."

"Sergeant Wilbur, get in here." One of the Marines had pulled Wilbur out from the fire and into the kettle, Yanagida giving the man a playful wave as he had been brought before the JSDF command staff, Pierce, Lelei, and Yao. The map and that giant gemstone had been on the table.

The eyes told all across the room, minus Yao's, but her golden gaze had gone dead as Lelei had explained what had been obviously said, Hazawa's moustache curling with distaste on his mouth: obviously from the fact he had not been conferred first.

"No?" Wilbur had said as he stood in front of them all, all of them seated as Pierce held his cap. He shook his head.

"No."

"Nothing that Pierce hasn't already explained, Sergeant."

"Can't even send the Rangers? Or Force Recon?" Wilbur had sounded almost pleading.

"The Rangers are on assignment right now, and Force Recon is on constant patrols up and down the current safe zone between the new JSDF FOBs, Camp Kilgore, and here. Sorry Wilbur." Pierce said, defeated in his own way.

Wilbur had shrugged sarcastically. "Don't apologize to me, apologize to the young woman here." he spread his hands to the elf, looking desperately again between him and the commanders, he apparently not as pleased as she was at least.

"Stay your tongue, Sergeant. The conversation regarding this topic is over; now comes your new responsibilities:" Hazama had said before Wilbur had started yelling. "Just as Itami had done with his refugees, Lelei here for example, Miss Ducy here shall fall under your care for the time being. If she decides to leave, let her leave, but if she stays, at least integrate her into the Arnus or Italica communities."

"That's that, eh?"

"We've studied the American problems that plagued Iraq and Afghanistan in the early 2000s, Sergeant Wilbur: You can't help everyone. If you try, you start stretching yourself thin. I think we're helping enough people here in this Corridor. Is that understood? No need to spread the war when we're bargaining for peace with an Empire as is." Hazama grit out.

Wilbur had faced a lot of authority figures in his life: his biggest thus far having been his boss at BP, who he had grilled when he stormed out of his job, refusing to greenlight data that would've led to the destruction of the Shetland Islands and their communities.

He took that precious data with him as he quit, he still risking facing the jail time that came from hiding that data from BP. Now he had been about to completely lose it toward the military commander, the end all be all, of the Special Task Force. But he kept his calm, seeing Yao look at him needingly.

"No sir, I don't understand, but I'll comply."

"Which is all I need, Sergeant. Dismissed."

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – The Corridor**_

* * *

The car ride to the Arnus side of the Corridor and the rest house for some of the senior NCOs who had gone out on the town had been as heavy as the clouds above, just waiting to pour, Wilbur not saying a word to the driver: Yanagida.

It wasn't until that car stop did anyone actually say anything, Lelei looking with her usual blank look at a frozen, a failed, Yao. The answer having been said to her three times over from three different people. Not that Wilbur had been one of those people.

The car was put in park as Yanagida lit a cigarette and rolled down the car's window, taking one drag and blowing it out.

"There's always got to be a reason more than just saving people, oil man."

"You don't say, kiss ass?" Wilbur responded into his palm, his chin resting on it.

"Sure. It might work for some people like Lieutenant Itami and Lieutenant Emerson. But they'll learn in due time. Just because someone they hold dear is in trouble, doesn't mean jack shit to the brass if they're doing their job right."

"And…?" Wilbur had asked, annoyed as he got out of the car, speaking through the window now.

"The worth of a nation is power, and the measure used to gauge it is material. Give us a material reason to move out, and maybe we will. Just like 2003."

Wilbur had only shook his head as he had taken Yao's hand as he opened the door, leading her out as Lelei rounded the back. The car had taken off soon after that, the rain above finally starting to drizzle.

They had gotten in quickly enough, the streets clearing out all the same, finding a few lonely seats in the second floor of that building that looked like it came out of the old west.

It was maybe ten minutes before a waitress had gotten to them, Yao and Wilbur both looking up to see the same bunny woman that had kicked their asses out last night.

She opened her mouth to say something.

" _ **Don't care.**_ Scotch on the rocks. Saint John's Wort for the two ladies." Wilbur said coldly, glancing at her name tag: Delilah. Apparently she had multiple jobs.

She had bucked up real quick and only bowed out with their order in mind.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Super Chinook Bravo 2-3**_

* * *

"You're telling me that we've got a Spooky down on the tarmac now?" Harris had been more than glad to be off sunshine sweeping duty for the last month, now a "combat" deployment having come to Hitman 1-1 and 2-1's desk. Sunshine sweeping duty as Emerson having said it: "Wipe the god damned sun off the sidewalk until it ain't there no more."

The sunshine in question had been an orange glow already, about to go away. Back from where they came from a rainstorm had been brewing.

It was the punishment for him having to actually deal with Harris's discretion with Tokyo women off base. There was always some whorehouse in Pyongyang or Baghdad willing to take in the less responsible NATO or American troops. Just a fact of the matter that not every officer could watch what everything their soldiers did. But damned if they did anything to inconvenience them.

That being said Emerson had been absent from Arnus and Italica entirely, he having taken off with Pina on her request to be an envoy of the US with the Japanese envoy. She didn't want any other American there yet.

That had been several days after they had returned to the Special Region, Masterson and Bannon having taken control in his absence.

Bannon had stood as the helicopter flew just shy of the clouds, an F/A-18 rocking its wings as it settled offside of the helicopter, they having escorted them for most of the day, half the side dedicated to RCT3, the other half Hitman. Down the middle had been several "diplomatic" resources which that other Japanese lieutenant had seen over with the foreign ministry man.

Modern tools, handicrafts, denarii and gold, a bottle of '78 Normandy, electronics and batteries: proof of a modern age and decadence. The armory of a diplomat, essentially.

She had adjusted her suit: wings having been grafted on from one of the more modern suits to the Gulf War jacket, Itami unsure of what they were as he had looked at them all: every Ranger having such webbings and wings attached along metal cases along their silhouettes.

"One is all we need, Harris." she yelled over the noise of the chopper, the back door still open. She had kept her Enfield, same as Masterson had kept his double barrel boom stick and the two SAAs, Emerson having taken the Winchester with him during his mission hidden under the guise of a sword sheath.

The AC-130U Spooky II, one Gatling gun, one 40mm Bofors, and a Howitzer to its name had been the biggest stick in the Special Region thus far. Maybe something of a compensation for the still present amount of JSDF troops to Marines, but it didn't really matter the reasoning at this point. Fact of the matter was it had been here to stay.

It had been called by the residents on the ground during its inaugural flight over The Corridor, The Ark, funnily enough.

She had waved at the pilot in one of the Phantoms trailing them, a scout's salute returning to her as she rubbed her eyepatch, the four aircraft turning away and RTB.

It was still on, but only on the opposite side now as to give her new eye, and it had been new entirely, some time to adjust and practice.

Unfortunately the treatment didn't cover anything but the operation, the eyeball itself not exactly the prettiest thing. "Designer" organs and limbs had been a thing to amputees, but Bannon hadn't minded if her eye had been a cloudy white with a scar cutting across it. It was still functional.

Masterson had been holding the bottle of red '78 Normandy as he had tossed it back over to a nervous Foreign Affairs Officer by the name of Tetsuo. "Watch it! This is ammo for me!"

Masterson had shook his head as he had readjusted his Stetson, the man really, really pushing the barriers of Army regulation. "Ain't never seen a war won by red wine and pearls, Tetsuo."

Sergeant George Ramirez, quiet man as he was, even quieter than Peters, had grumbled his throat and spoke into the radio needed to speak above the noise. Khan, having been attached to Peters' chest, had looked over to him first as the squad did. Ramirez was one of the older men, not by age outright, but by what he had seen. A veteran, full and full. There when Baghdad fell both times in 2020 and 2023, and having had caught himself on vacation time in Busan when Kim Jung Un died, North Korea's entire population sending itself not only toward the DMZ, but toward China as well.

He was another story, not too different from Masterson and Emerson, during that day in Ginza half a year ago.

When he spoke, he spoke volumes.

"In Iran we won by word and rug, sergeant." he said as he had checked the chamber of his M4. "Wine and pearls ain't so different."

Cameron knew when to respect his elders, so he only gave off an acknowledging grunt as he had settled back into his seat, RCT3 looking at Ramirez oddly. Bannon had been scarred, yes, but Ramirez had stolen the spotlight from her in that sense. The greatest advocate in peace in Hitman squad had been the man most destroyed by war: dents and canals in his skin by bullet and suicide bombs survived thrice over.

He pointed a ragged hand at Tetsuo, sitting with RCT3 as Itami continued to smoke at the end of the row of seats, the last one before the cargo door that Bannon had been standing before, her hand tight on a handle.

"You been there, haven't ya?" he noted the man's hiking shoes, he otherwise in a office shirt and pants with a bulletproof vest over it. He recognized the oil staining, the shale, the sand encrusted in the fabric of those shoes.

"Africa and the Middle East, yeah."

"No." Ramirez had said, taking off his helmet and revealing a regulation shaved head, unlike everyone else who thought themselves so special to not groom themselves. The grooming standard was a principle, not a rule outright. On that bald head had been patches of scars, of heat burns, of war. He simply wasn't happy he was in the Special Region at all: he had seen true war. What right did the people have to bring people like him over here? "Operation Open Wind."

Tetsuo had sat straight in his seat as he clenched his jaw, adjusting his glasses and remembering the invasion of Iran in 2021.

"My first assignment." he said solemnly.

"Those were the days, eh?" Ramirez smirked, half sarcastically, half maliciously.

"If you like thinking about Iraq too, then sure. Least in Iran people didn't want to blow up the aid stations because of "Western poisons".

Ramirez had opened up one of the many crates brought on. Half Japanese, half American in composition, the man taking out a bottle of soy sauce. "Poison, eh? Aren't we poisoning the Empire already?"

Itami had looked back to the veteran. "If you consider converting war hawks to doves. Then sure, poisoning."

"A little suffering is good for the soul." Doc had commented.

"It ain't politicians you gotta convince in the end, lieutenant, it's the people." And Ramirez knew how true that was. "I know Emerson's a good man, good lieutenant, but I fear all he been dealing with ever since he headed off to the capital is the bread and butter politicians instead of the _vox populi_."

Itami had shook his head. "I'm sure Kay's fine. Pina's last few letters says no one suspects a thing from him."

Ramirez had shrugged apathetically. "Well, shit. We'll find out in a few minutes, won't we?"

"This is your captain speaking. All Hitman elements stand!" the Chinook pilot had yelled into the back.

The JSDF had looked oddly at the Rangers as they stood up single file, spreading their arms for black wings to deploy along the webbing of their uniforms. Itami had looked at his map and then outside. They were at their destination, but way too high.

"The hell is going on?" Shino had grabbed onto Masterson's arm to get his attention as he rolled his shoulders.

Itami recognized the equipment as he simply stomped on his cigarette and let it fly out the back.

Masterson had laughed as everyone tightened each other's kit, Bannon holding her hand up as she peered over the edge.

"Everyone wants to have fun Sergeant Kuribayashi! And jumping out of perfectly good aircraft is fun, _**hooah**_?!"

" _ **HOOAH!**_ "

"Isn't this a bit dangerous for just a rendezvous mission?!" Pops had yelled over the wind, holding his helmet as Bannon closed her fist and stared straight down.

"Nonsense!" Masterson had yelled in return, checking Black's kit one last time as he patted his head. "Jumping out of an aircraft is one of the safest things a human being can do!"

One of the merits of the 75th Ranger Battalions had been their embracing of a concept that had made them angels: vertical envelopment. Death from above.

Gone were the times of parachute controls and falls. Now had been the time of wings and flight.

Bannon had opened her fist and brought it down in a swoop. _ **"Go! Go! Go! Go!"**_

Loke had been the first in line, in front of Masterson, she opening her arms and simply running out of the door as Itami, instinctively, stood up and leaned to see her fall, before she flew. RCT3's mouths had been agape as they had seen an impromptu aerial assault practice go on in front of their faces.

Masterson had taken Itami's helmet with him as he had done a 180, saluting the man off with his helmet as he had done a back flip into the orange sky and took it with him. _**"Yahoo!"**_

"Hey!"

"Oh, Sergeant Masterson won't lose it." Nutt had said as he had held his arms out, diving down like a swimmer.

"These Rangers are fucking nuts." Kurata had said as Harris had gotten off: the man's weight making the helicopter shift as Bannon closed her fist again before the chopper stabilized, getting Black to go next with a slight push.

"It's part of the MO." another female Ranger had responded before she had jumped, rolling.

Bannon had only, in a rare moment of amusement written on her face, had agreed as the last ten Rangers lined up. _**"Hurry! Move it! Move it!"**_ she yelled.

They all fell out smoothly, goggles on and prayers made as Itami had sat back down and saw their forms all slowly make their way through the air and clouds like birds, linking up when they could before he had lost sight of them beneath the white puffs of another world.

"See you on the ground, Youji!" Bannon had yelled out as she had taken the jumping position herself, running headfirst into the sky before Itami could return the words, spreading her wings like an eagle, and finding her way through the air behind the rotating circle that had been the Rangers that came out before her, following their trails.

"…Are they usually like that?" Tetsuo had asked as he had hardly believed what he just saw.

Itami had breathed out, amused himself, taking in a sigh and running a hand through his hair. "Only when their captain isn't around… Shino, what do you think?"

He asked the troublesome one as she sat, tracking the dots that they were all the way down. "No opinion sir." she said, straight.

Itami had nodded. "Good."

With the cabin freed up, many of them had finally taken a look at the beautiful glowing orange sun, misty clouds making their way across the sky much like the Rangers.

"Do you think they want war, more than they want peace, lieutenant?" Kurokawa had asked as they all stared into that beautiful light, the Chinook slowly making its way down.

Bannon had broken the cloud barrier as the first of the rectangular parachutes had been deployed lower down by Loke, she releasing a green signal grenade and painting her way down for everyone to see over the woods. She looped her thumb around her parachute cord as she had dragged her eyepatch off through the goggles, a few of her squad creating drag to fall in behind her, all of them arms spread and forward much like superheroes as their wings did the rest.

"Is there anything that leads you to believe to think they don't?" Itami asked in return.

"Well, the Marines are often bragging about how fast they could take the Imperial Capital if the order was given. On how they could make this the shortest war in history."

"It's just idle talk, Kurokawa. You have to make talk like that to stay sane. A natural part of being an American soldier."

"Of wanting to do war and not wanting to do it at the same time?" Kurokawa had asked incredulously.

"Take this as you will, Kurokawa, but humankind only has two states: war and peace. The Americans have accepted war, as we have accepted peace. Now war might lead to peace, and peace might sour into war, but we are two different people expecting different things on how to resolve this little problem of ours. We are no more a wise people than them, and vice versa. The best we can do is hope for, and work to, peace if that is the best answer. And god…" He had looked into that warm sunset before he had crossed his arms and thought of home, of the people there who would benefit from peace, on how lucky the Japanese actually were in the world: to not know war like the Americans had in this modern day of age. " _I hope peace comes soon_."

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – The Corridor**_

* * *

" _ **Please! Just please!**_ " Yao had grabbed Lelei's small shoulders and begged before her. _**"Tell me it was a translation mistake! Tell me something else but that!"**_

Lelei, as infalliable as she was, had only shaken her head as she sipped her tea. "It wasn't a mistake or a dream. The answer is the reality. And unfortunately you have to accept reality." The reality that she could not save her village.

"No!' Yao had slammed her fists on the fabric of the table cloth, her half drunk tea splattering on its whiteness with dark coloration. " _ **No! No! No!**_ _**Why dammit!**_ "

"It was as General Hazawa and Colonel Overlord had explain he-" Wilbur had brought his finger up to his mouth to shush Lelei, Yao burying her face into her hands, tears splashing on them, through her fingers, and onto the ruined cloth.

Here, right before him, had been a crying woman he had to help.

Wilbur, as sour as a man he was, or maybe the correct term how Britishly dry he was, he had been a man of compassion all the same. Most human beings have empathy, he reasoned, why couldn't he, even as he sipped as his scotch, looking out of the rather fanciful windows and their shades to the dark of the world past the Gate.

He knew there was one thing he could do. One thing that always sprung nations in actions: resources, power, people. There always need to be, not a reason, but an excuse. Of course these reasons are always prevalent in hindsight, sometimes distastefully so, but they were always that catalyst for better or worse. He knew more than anything. It wasn't as if he was rejecting what Yanagida said.

As an oilman with BP he was there during the Third Iraq War, brought in to help stop the oil well fires as ISIS set them alight and destroyed facilities, how fast the "Coalition of the Damned" had gone to consolidate what was left of that precious liquid that was slowly running out in the world, unashamed.

It was often said to be the reason why America had gone to the Middle East in the first place.

Now that Japan was here and wanting the fruits of this world they would be even more overeager over one word, one dangerous word that Wilbur had made a job out of.

Sure, the geological surveys had been coming up as very, very, very fucking promising, in his own words, even in the area where Schwartz Woods was according to one of the probes, but the Colonel Pierce had made clear that it wasn't the US's right to start drilling, or to act on it, in any capacity. It would be up to the local people to decide once they were educated what was under their land if things had gone smoothly.

That was why all of the tankers had been oilmen: to be there if the Japanese started drilling without their consent.

Wilbur himself had thought he was there to repeat the cycle of the America love of black gold, but no, he was somewhat relieved, the only circumstances where he would be drilling would've been in worst case scenarios.

But that was the magic word that would've saved this elf's village: _**oil**_.

He knew though, what would've happened, if he told the Japanese it was there. The Americans were the only ones that knew what this land really held.

They walked the same red, white, and blue blood spattered path, and perhaps who was he to judge? That is what he had thought as he made up his mind.

The lesser of two evils, and what did he care? The Japanese had already started digging their graves, might as well let them dig their oil wells.

"Lelei," he talked to the child as Yao sobbed. "Remember this, would ya?"

Lelei had looked between them. "I do not see how I could."

"Yeah, well, think moral of the story here is that you're only as strong as the enemies you can beat."

"And Yao is not strong enough?" she said without pity in her voice. She had wanted there to be, but Lelei never knew much about expressing emotions.

"It is not weakness to ask for help from stronger people, but I think Yao here is very, very strong. Strong enough to beat that dragon… It's just not right for her to be like this. And she doesn't need to be." he said. "Yao." he breathed out simply as he put his chin on his palm and held it as he looked out, rain unceasing as it started to pour.

The year was 867, he had understood it, by the Imperial Calendar. Five months ago, the Empire had made its greatest mistake in trying to invade another world. The year brought war and disaster to them and it was only half over. "There's a Japanese lieutenant that can help you…" he stated, unsure of what he was doing.

"Itami can help you." Lelei had said simply. "And perhaps Captain Emerson."

The elf barely unfroze from her break down.

"But, as a representative in the American Armed Forces… I'll see what I can do. Honestly" he stood up, straightening out his uniform, taking the last of his scotch down as he nodded a to Lelei. "There's a saying in English, Lelei, Yao: _Never do evil that good may come of it_. If you are willing to sacrifice yourself in the name of your people though… I'll just step outside for a moment."

Wilbur had went off as he passed Delilah, passed the other American and Japanese officers and NCOs out into the rain, and leaving the discussion behind for the moment as the rain came in a bassy wave.

It was a dragon, not the Taliban, or some form of marauding Imperial regulars or raiders. An animal terrorizing people that had no political leanings. Merely a primal enemy on the wrong side of a border.

Nothing more, in theory, than putting down a wild dog.

But sure, Wilbur reasoned. Said the same thing about Gaddafi, Saddam, Bin Laden, Hitler.

That was the sin of the mission.

A drop of rain had caught on his lips, and he tasted it. It gave him pause. This world had been untouched by the problems of their civil society, but yet, maybe they would've had those problems one day. All such civilizations do. Though it was not hard to think of how virgin this land was, and how much they all had done to it in a month, regardless of what flag they wore.

The sky was still blue, the ground was still unpoisoned, and the air was still fresh. The rain tasted marvelous to his long weathered soul, who had broken the Earth in the name of black gold. A good Earth, inhabited by good people.

This, perhaps, would be his only time to taste a good Earth as it was intended in the falling evening, praying he had been a good person too as he stepped out into the middle of the street.

He leaned his head back, and he opened his mouth.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _Struggle is the father of all things._

 _Adolf Hitler, on the rise of the German people after the First World War, 1924_

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Credit scroll music for GATE: Jieitai Kanochi nite Kaku Tatakaeri (Thus, the JSDF Fought There)**_

 _ **First Cour**_

 _ **Kishida Kyoudan & the Akeboshi Rockets - Sore Ha Akatsuki No You Ni (Like the Break of Dawn)**_


	16. Interlude I: Smuggled History

_**Smuggled Reading Material for Princess Pina Co Lada**_

 _As intercepted by Agent Mitchell Beckett_

* * *

 _Note: MATERIAL AUTHORIZED FOR PASSAGE_

 _Note to D/CIA: Hitman's lessons seemed to only have hit up to 2015, supplemental information here seems to highlight history from 2015 on. Also public information on Hitman and RCT3 have been gathered here as well._

 _No changes needed. I doubt they would even understand what the hell this all means, and it's doubtful that they will ever have need for this information in the future._

 _Notes added to Bio. Own personal history notes added as well._

 _Request transfer to Special Region to accelerate recovery of expeditionary team._

* * *

 **2016** \- In US politics, Democrats capture majority in Congress and the Presidency in landslide elections with progressive support. A legacy from the Obama Administration, the final surge forces deployed to Iraq in 2003 are shipped home, ending the longest war in US History. Only a token force, left to maintain NATO embassies and bases. Following a yearly surge in ISAF forces, the permanent force strength deployed to Afghanistan numbers around twenty thousand combat troops.

The Ukraine conflict comes to an end with no defined leader as ceasefire comes into effect; major belligerents vive for peace rather than further conflict.

 **2017 -** Shifts in the air currents in North Africa blow Saharan sand toward the Arabian Peninsula creating a season of untempered sandstorms. While Egypt and most of the westward Southwest Asian states remained unaffected including Turkey, Israel, and Egypt. Saudi Arabia and Yemen become blanked it sand. The UAE is washed in the largest sandstorm in the region's recorded history. Iranian influence in region grows with deployment of forces against ISIS in Iraq. Saudi Arabia's influence wanes under environmental destruction and social unrest threaten to tear the country apart.

Western sanctions on the Russian Federation create an economic downturn not seen since the late 80s; political fighting at the Kremlin breaks out breaking up Putin's governing dominance, reflecting civil unrest across the world's largest nation. Rogue elements of Ukraine volunteer battalions retake portions of Crimea and furthers tensions between Russia and the pro-Western administration of Loyalist Ukraine. Volunteer troops are disavowed and are gunned down by Russian regulars leading to reignited discussion on the legitimacy of Crimea's annexation in the international community.  
ISIS forces legitimize their rule in North Iraq and East Syria splitting the two embattled nations in two. The Russian bombings continue with minor effect against the Islamic State.

 **2018** \- A Russo-EU Cold War over the Baltic States and the regional cost of oil leads Russia to seek allies outside its direct borders. Through political and economic maneuvering, Russia establishes a self-led financial bloc referred to as "Trans National Finance Initiative" or TNFI with member states Syria, Iran, Venezuela, Argentina, Brazil, and Nicaragua with India and France as acting observers. The trade bloc accounts for almost half of the world's oil exports and a number of major raw resource exporters; the bloc outmaneuvered Europe, the US, and China in a more exclusive financial environment for a faltering Russia.

Russia's socioeconomic bubble collapses with oncoming spring and creating internal political lines between radical, progressive, and moderate factions in Russian society and threatening the long standing unity of the Russo nation. Financial riots seize Leningrad and St. Petersberg.

In the United States, following years of undernoted civil unrest, the government remains uninterested in international issues as military efforts of the country fully shift to the Pacific facing a politically isolated China. Puerto Rico is admitted as the 51st state of the United States of America. An economic boom created by a faltering Russia allows the US to invest heavily in oil drilling of the Arctic.

 **2019** \- The sandstorms of the Arabian Peninsula further intensifies the unprecedented refugee crisis in the Middle East leading to more Arabs traveling to the EU in search of salvation, Germany, among other Eurozone members, is better equipped and willing to accept the new immigrants in a economic move to bolster the greying German workforce. Greek anti-immigrant factions claim more influence in the faltering European country, since 2008, the nation has had little improvement following the Greco Economic Vacuum.

The UAE including the capital, Dubai are blanketed by an ocean of sand leading to an environmental disaster. Among international groups sent to receive and evacuate the populace, an American Army 33rd Infantry Battalion, referred to as "The Damned" attempted to evacuate the embattled Dubai, the mission ended in failure with the loss of the entire deployment and almost the entire surviving population. The full story remains heavily classified by the US Army until 2079.

The 2019 NYC Civil Rights Riots lasted a period of two months leading to a standoff with the 101st Army Airborne clad in riot gear. Some considered these policing actions to be the precipice of America coming under martial law. Civil unrest created a domestic social crisis and creating a involuntary isolationist movement for American foreign policy till 2021.

Vladimir Putin dies at the age 67 from a short battle with lung cancer. Due to unusual health problems unrelated to cancer and public records showing a heightened dosage of radiation, some speculate the Russian president was assassinated, though the culprit and motive were never determined or found. The Russian economy's spiraling collapse leads to Western nations attempting to pump money and repealing sanctions to prevent a national collapse that could threaten worldwide oil fluctuation.

The Russian government establish stronger ties with Vietnam leading to an air base in Ho Chi Minh City.

 **2020** \- The Vietnamese government cedes naval territory to Indonesia and the Philippines in attempt to garner support against a growing China to little avail.

China's mass housing bubble, created by the overpricing and over speculation on the Chinese housing market in a number of Chinese "ghost cities." Attempts to shrug off the damage fails and China enters a financial hiccup nearly dropping the floor in the global economy, government intervention manages to scavenge the Chinese economy before it could collapse and causing international corporations to consider searching for new states to settle in, primarily India. The Chinese military only grows more daring in trying to protect the nation's interests as global involvement in China declines with the Chinese yuan.

Naval skirmishes over the Paracels and a border standoff prevents Chinese access to Middle Eastern oil via the sea further isolating China from its only source of commerce. The PRC, in attempt to stave off a full shooting war, turns to its regional ally, Pakistan for support in building a "modern Silk Road" to the Arabian Peninsula and granting Chinese access to oil out of the hands of the SEA nations.

NATO is forced to recognize an autonomous Kurdistan at the discomfort of the Iraqi and Turkish governments, threatening the already fragile peace between the United States and their ally Turkey which continues to refuse to recognize the Kurds as a sovereign state or the Twentieth century Armenian genocide.

 **2021** \- A conservative presidency takes power in the United States government with a foreign policy beginning to favor confrontation rather than isolationism reflective of the liberal administration of Franklin Roosevelt before World War Two. Previous interest in global warming prevention is subsidized in favor of protecting traditional financial markets, specifically oil leading to an economic conflict between Russia, Canada, the United States, Japan, the United Kingdom, and the European Union in oil drilling rights in a previously dominated Canadian-American venture in the Arctic, the North Pacific, and Central Atlantic.

Among the chaos, one Alton Wilbur, a surveyor for British Petroleum, quits his job and buries valuable survey data on the Shetland Islands to protect the archipelago, his home, from environmental disaster.

The Sino-American Space Race reaches a new head as the Chinese start the building process of their prospective mega orbiter, Shèng diàn, or "holy shrine." The Chinese National Space Administration launched four simultaneous modules and expects the station's completion by 2030, in line with the expected launch of China's manned missions to the lunar surface. In contrast, the United States pumped forty billion dollars into their national and private space agencies. The United States launches in the Autumn, four geosynchronous combat satellites carrying kinetic strike weapons of tungsten with a depleted uranium warhead referred to as "Rods." Many nations without access to space applied sanctions on the American economy in retaliation for the clear weaponization of Earth's orbit, a legacy of Ronald Reagan's SDI initiative of the late 70s.

Saudi Arabia collapses as the military disintegrates and the royal family is toppled by desperate civilians egged on by religious hardliners. Iraq's own government finds itself under siege by Iraqi militia further muddling the lines of the reignited Iraq War between an ever more powerful Kurdistan, a encroaching Iran, ISIS, the remnants of Saddam's field army, Iraqi militia, and the embattled and desperate resident American garrison left to maintain American bases and the Iraqi embassy. American civilians are ordered to immediately evacuate as the American satellites are fired for the first time at an enemy state. One Marine in Iraq described the combat as "out of war videos of Vietnam fighting against NVA and Chinese troops until the Earth erupted and swallowed the enemy whole in one giant bite". The resulting strategic impacts created tremors recorded on the richter scale in Iran miles away.

Resource collection efforts in Africa turn sour as the Saharan Desert expands to cover the northern tip of the Congo. African warlords unify against the resource companies, destroying millions of dollars worth in goods and resources as facilities in Africa are occupied and dismantled illegally by guerilla factions and throwing countless African republics into bloody, tribal civil wars. Within the chaos, further civil wars break out across Libya created by ISIS affiliates, the UN remains unable to respond as the situation in the Middle East worsens still.

Between terror groups and guerrilla armies, major flashpoints across the Middle East reignite uncontrolled violence. The Afghanistan War begins again. Iraq's government falls with Baghdad and its military scattered to the winds without NATO backing. Saudi Arabia is swallowed into a civil war defined by endless dunes of sand and fighting caravans between AQAP and roaming warlords. OPEC fragments and the global oil prices fluctuate to sixty dollars a barrel.

Nuclear Energy and Alternative fuel sources receive further funding in the West to mitigate the oil collapse. Leading the charge back into the Middle East a third time, NATO struck hard and fast against ISIS forces creating the MDC, the Mutual Defense Coalition as designed by the United Nations Security Council. The NATO-ISIS War officially begins.

 **2022** \- The Islamic holy sites and major cities of Saudi Arabia are washed away in the sand creating a religious exodus in the Muslim world. GPS markers by frantic archaeologists and the global historical community provide that future excavation of the sites will remain possible in the future. The religious world at large still reeling from the loss of Mecca, several monuments in Israel, Iraq and Syria come to be destroyed during the fighting, prompting mass suicides and religious upheaval throughout the world, in an ironic way, Armaggeddon of religious sites became a reality. The world's largest oil reserve is lost to environmental crisis and the Saudi oil fields stop pumping for the final time.

Iran, having long since achieved the materials and sophistication to deploy nuclear weapons, test their first ICBM on a defunct warship drifting 200 miles away in the Indian Ocean. The operation is a success but drawing the Islamic Republic into a shooting war with the militarily superior but substantially smaller Israel. AQAP grows in strength on the Arabian Peninsula as a ensuing refugee crisis in Israel taxes the resources of the Jewish nation. Israel declares war following Iran's nuclear test as riots and infighting breaks out between some refugee factions aligned with the Palestinian Authority, however, the country manages to stay afloat in the religious turmoil.

Russian support for Iran shorts out in a sudden civil war that topples the Kremlin leading to the retaking of Crimea and portions of West Russia by Ukrainian forces in an unexpected rebound by the large Baltic nation. Without NATO support and fighting alone in the Iraqi desert against quantitatively superior foes with regional allies far and few between, Israel threatens to use the Samson Option against Iran with its substantial stockpile of about three hundred nuclear weapons putting it on par with military giant, China.

Late in the year, NATO activates its reserves and a conscriptive draft for both men and women in Operation: Open Wind - a blitzkrieg-styled invasion of Iran, the last standing Islamic member of the assigned "Axis of Evil" coined by George W. Bush at the open of the War on Terror. The NATO-ISIS War expands into the second wave of the War on Terror. The NATO forces allied themselves with Israel, Egypt, and Kurdistan forming the majority of the MDC against terror cells and terror states around the Middle East. To some historians, the war was considered the most unbelievable or incomprehensible crusade in all of human history.

 **2023** \- After a year, the NATO invasion of Iran is considered a success but maintaining the victory was a projected nightmare. It took six months to secure the country and even then, the NATO forces were spread thin and far trying to seize the runaway WMDs. A pro-Western youth staved off mission disaster that had turned the operation in Afghanistan and Iraq a decade earlier into a nightmare; through humanitarian aid and the building up of national infrastructure, the MDC managed to achieve a victory in the war "for the hearts and minds."

Russia manages to consolidate from its civil war into a continuously isolationist but more amicable nation aligning themselves and Syria on the side of MDC. The Assad Regime's participation left many European nations doubting the alliance's survival, however, with Syria's mostly separate front detailed in deployments in their own territory against ISIS, NATO forces were willing to look past the human rights abuses committed by the totalitarian, secular rule of the dictator as a lesser evil in comparison to that of ISIS maintaining the same stance of the West since the beginning of the War on Terror.

Following a avian influenza epidemic in China, spreading to Mongolia, India, and North Korea. The Korean ruler, Kim Jong Un dies of influenza during one of the worst typhoons in recorded history leading to a power vacuum in North Korea and leading to a uncontrollable civil war.

 **2024** \- The defeat of ISIS and the clean up all over the Middle East left a huge mess of the people, culture, and the region with many European members deciding to pull out as the United States refuses to leave what many consider a lost cause. One American ambassador to France claimed, "We will bury ourselves in the sands of this Hell rather than let another ISIS rise from the ashes. We will die if we don't stay. We've made the mistake twice before, this is the last time."

Scotland, not happy with the violence and conflict that the London-led government had brought upon their state, sever ties with England becoming its own separate nation though its survival is still questionable as an early recession prevents the country from building up a lasting infrastructure. Among other issues, European microstates seceded at an unprecedented rate from their mother nations as costs for the war drove the European Union into a recession.

Weeks following Kim Jong Un's death, a military junta led by the inner circle of Un's military commanders propped themselves over the reign of moderate son, Kim Jong Song reminiscent of World War Two Emperor Hirohito of the Feudal Empire of Japan. The North Korean field army struck out at the DMZ of South Korea and quickly taking Seoul even with South Korean forces putting up a major fight. In the ensuing chaos, the North Koreans accidently fired upon Chinese forward positions on the border leading to a full fledged shooting war between the Hermit Kingdom and their last standing ally. First Response forces from a decade-long buildup of forces in the Pacific to counteract the growing China proved their worth as they bolstered the unprepared but battle hardened South Korean military.

Many veterans tell of the bloodiest fighting they had seen except in comparison to the savagery of the ISIS forces in the Middle East, the North Koreans were brutal and uncompromising on a level that matched the zeal of the Empire of Japan.

Lieutenant Colonel Adrian Pierce and Captain Isaiah Sevson of the Third Marine Division were considered major force multipliers in the original counterattack, pushing the North Korean main force past the 38th parallel and being among the first allied units to invade North Korea in several decades. Shortly after in the following year, Pierce and Sevson are promoted and assigned command of the newly established 7th Marine Expeditionary Unit.

Captain Matthew "BlueWay" Noelle becomes one of the top scoring aces during the second / Continuing Korean War. His experience in corralling human waves from his aircraft factors into his deployment to the Special Region years later.

South Korean UDTs succeeded in infiltrating and escorting the young heir, Song from Pyongyang as the surrounding area was blasted by American kinetic weapons and civilians were maneuvered out of population centers via airdropped human aid to prevent civilian casualties as the DPRK Army fought with forward moving American Army Airborne and Rangers via V-22 Osprey aircraft.

The successor of the American president is that of liberal front runner, Anton "Hardhead" Dirrell, a politician known for his tough position and unflinching resolve. His administration is responsible for sticking to the Middle East as both a business-focused leader and a strong arm president. He's more inline with the ideals of "New Age Leftist" policy which favored big government with some conservative policies.

The Mexican government, suffering from its overlapping cartel problem and migrant crisis buckles under the weight of political corruption and the collapse of the nation's society. South American republics continue to tear apart their rainforests in favor of drugs and farmland that have many in the international community worried about a future of a South American collapse from economic and environmental destruction.

 **2025** \- The United States secures the majority of North Korea's nuclear stockpiles while the Chinese managed to reach Pyongyang before the allied forces could reach the capital.

NATO-ISIS War draws to a close while many terror cells are still in play, the major belligerents have been defeated and the last standing members of the MDC attempt to rebuild the crumbling foundations of the largest war fought since World War Two. The regional powers of the region, really just the nations that managed to survive the conflict of the Middle East included Israel, Egypt, Kurdistan, Iran, and Pakistan. Afghanistan even with its large number of ISAF peacekeepers, the nation's future is now up in the air as some consider accommodating the Taliban and Al Qaeda in the nation's final design may be the only way to establish peace as records have shown that terrorist groups overtime would turn political rather than continue warfare given certain positive conditions be met.

Many of the post-9/11 generation however remain unsure of whether any peace measure can be met but after a decade and a half of unending conflict has made many of the civilian population tired of war. Over the course of the NATO-ISIS War, the American government had spent almost 900 billion dollars on the nation's military.

Best stated by the Conservative Liberal President Dirrell, "The War on Terror is over, thank the Lord. We have won, America is in the right."

Meanwhile, the North Korean conflict continues against remnants of North Korea. The Second Korean War appears to be at a close.

 **2026** – NATO-ISIS War draws to a close but ISIS remains a standing threat alongside the still existing Taliban in Afghanistan. The rebuilding and guerrilla war against factions in Iraq and rebuilding of Iran from scratch goes well be it by their own people, by American suppliers, or Russians, or other allies. The Middle East's standing powers seem to be on the rise. AQAP is left to its own devices but begins reopening oil trade in the place where OPEC used to influence the price but at a much more diminished level. Egypt, Iran, Iraq, and Kurdistan become new nation-building successes for the US's new methodology in such campaigns.

Mexico City fragments and Mexico falls under martial law of the nation's police and military forces. The American military is deployed to secure the Southern border and moved forces with permission from the Mexican military to provide aid and military support against the multiple cartels in the region. Some political experts expect Mexico to become the next major war of the United States. Some speculators have gone as far to call the occupation of Mexico as "America's own Crimea." Instead it has been justified by claims of North American unity and stability in accordance with the North American Free Trade Agreement. Canada has maintained a neutral stance on the deployment of American forces to the southern nation. However, for all its talk; the Mexican conflict has helped maintain the American materials industry and the military-industrial complex dating back to the Cold War. From some perspectives, it appears that America's economy has and will continue to be built on warmongering again playing into the fears of some in the international community.

 **2027** \- Expansion of Chinese and Vietnamese maritime borders have Japan still on edge. Remnants of the North Korean regular army plague the Chinese border with skirmishes, even after Kim Jung Song, last of the Kim dynasty, constantly calls for peace against the "western invaders". Despite this, Korea is reunified as the Republic of Unified Korea.

During December, fresh out of training, 2nd Lieutenant Kristian R. Emerson is assigned as lead of the Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon, in the newly minted Fourth Ranger Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment. 2nd Lieutenant Emerson, having been fast tracked through an accelerated program in Syracuse University, West Point, and RASP, is extraordinarily young for a person of his position and capability.

Staff Sergeant Lisa H. Bannon and Staff Sergeant Cameron B. Masterson reunite in Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon by pure coincidence, after being apart without contact, or serious intent to, in the last few years.

 **2028** – Summer Olympics take place in Aleppo, Syria. Completes uneventfully.

A mysterious Gate opens in Ginza. The Ginza Incident occurs.

Japan declares all areas past the Gate as Japanese territory and moves to respond with military force against the wishes of the international community.

The US loses twelve civilians in the incident, thus a special detachment of Army Rangers and the 7th Marine Expeditionary Unit is deployed.

Operation Odyssey Ultimatum takes place along the JSDF "occupation" of the Special Region. Both the JSDF and the US Military establishes operating bases in the region, Japanese doctrine dictated by the original invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan nearly thirty years prior to American protest.

* * *

Bios (Summarized Version):

 **Name: Itami Youji**

Male, 34, First Lieutenant, Japanese Ground Self Defense Force

No public record until military service. Went to mediocre college and got mediocre grades. Became 2nd lieutenant in the JSDF out of college, bottom of class. Work evaluations barely satisfactory, disciplinary action taken culminating in further intensive training: as such is both a Ranger and qualified for Special Operations Group work.

Was present at Ground Zero during the Ginza Incident and successful actions led to several thousand civilians being saved. Awarded several medals and honors by the Defense Ministry of Japan. During actions in the Special Region, is known to have fought of a legendary flame dragon and successfully hold off 200,000 bandits invading Italica. Often considered the figurehead of Japanese involvement in the Special Region with Hazama due to a majority of locals having become familiar with him.

Lives in Narashino, Japan. Has ex-wife whom still maintain close relations with.

Currently deployed as commander of Recon Team 3 in the Special Region.

 _Note:_

 _Avid otaku, often explained for his only real for working._

 _Psychological evaluation says that his interest as an Otaku is his coping mechanism for his own failures and path in life, stemming from the death of his father and mother's interment at a psyche ward following self-immolation. Very passionate man if spurred. Advise Hitman to be wary of moral clashes with him in the future. He is a special forces capable man, people tend to forget._

* * *

 **Name: Kristian R. Emerson**

Male, 25, Captain, United States Army

Born the same day Iraqi Freedom commenced in 2003, Bronx native of New York City. Family of one brother and a mother and father barely above poverty line. Studied his way out of the Bronx to Syracuse University on massive scholarship offerings as Valedictorian. During admission at Syracuse he was beaten by a drunk Chinese professor after being run over by his car. Didn't fight back.

Fellow students eventually pulled professor off of Emerson; compensated with paid for tuition and a hefty cash endowment.

Attempted psychological therapy to no avail, went to West Point after graduation from Syracuse via an accelerated program and then to the United States Army Rangers.

Deployed overseas to Japan. Was present during the Ginza Incident with Itami Youji. Lost a soldier during it.

Then deployed with the Special Task Force under Colonel Pierce's 7th MEU. Participated in the Defense of Italica and the skirmish against the flame dragon. Is on assignment currently in the Imperial Capital with Imperial Princess Pina Co Lada.

Noted fan of the New York Mets and has considerable athletic ability; was noted in saying he used to hop rooftops in the Bronx as a child.

 _Note: Post-battle observations label Emerson as increasingly mentally unstable for periods. Early signs of PTSD and shell shock. Stems from the beating he had in Syracuse, most likely: unable to get that rage out._

 _Good man, but, was in the wrong place at he wrong time, more often than not. If it gets too bad we'll keep him only on base at Italica as Myui's American liaison. If he breaks down we'll probably send him and Itami to the same psyche ward eventually._

 _A textbook soldier, to all other indications. A foil to Itami, so to speak. And he knows it._

* * *

 **Name: Lisa H. Bannon**

Female, 29, Staff Sergeant, United States Army

Born to an affluent Montana family, something of a modern day proletariat: family belonging to an order of great wealth among Wall Street aficionados. Grew up in a gated community and went to Montana State University for financing. Found her stake in real estate and leasing land. Invested in China in the last 2010s and promptly married to a suitor picked by the mother and father.

When the Chinese housing bubble popped she was found penniless, no emotional support, and disowned out of the family for filing for divorce from the arranged marriage.

Lived her early twenties up and down the midwest from the back of a pickup truck, picking up odd jobs and drifting until deciding to join the Army after the divorce.

Generally anti-social, but has proved to be a good team leader in battle: Emerson's main choice in taking over the squad in his absence. Level headed, if not a bit disgruntled.

Is fond of music, and is often plugged in while off duty.

 _Note: Relationship with Masterson is noted. There are stupider things to reprimand her on. That and I'd rather not have Emerson's two best friends put out of the service. Willing to stretch the code of conduct and not put in a notice to HQ and Godfather._

 _She thinks very business like when it comes down to the wire, and that amoral, emotionless thought process is what will be needed if war breaks out fully._

* * *

 **Name: Cameron B. Masterson**

Male, 30, Staff Sergeant, United States Army

The reputation of two of Texas's most influential lawyers follows Cameron in spades, if not in the way he walks, but in the way he talks; a smart mouth enough to get him kicked out of the house and run away at the verge of becoming a teenager. He has much alike to his compatriot Bannon in that they both had lived off the odd jobs that were offered up and down Texas and America's heartland, albeit he had been doing it for a decade longer than she: his community collegiate degree often leaving much debate to Masterson's intelligence as an NCO of his units up and down the Ranger battalions.

Though most of such rumblings are just conjecture; Masteron having proven himself when the going gets rough and as intelligent as Hitman's team one leader.

Ecstatic, generally always in a good mood, needed to "balance out Bannon's stick up her ass", his odd jobs have lent him many odd skills, and his disposition on life lends him to make friends easily, regardless of any saucy or controversial statements he might make.

Due to his drifter past, not many official records are available on him, however he holds first place in an Amarillo, Cowboy themed 3-Gun tournament.

Has been present with Itami and Emerson throughout their actions in the Special Region and Ginza. Is loved by the kids in The Corridor for his card tricks.

 _Note: Say what you want about this man, but he's a Ranger still. He got where he is because he was capable. As noted above, there are stupider things that I could've passed along a reprimand notice on, same as Bannon, and especially for being with Bannon, but fact of the matter is even if I wanted it, the Imperials and those three god damn refugees would be asking where they were if we moved them. Didn't think it'd work out like that in the end: getting personal with the enemy. They know our names, they know our faces, they know who we are._

 _Can we really call them an enemy if they know those things?_

 _Anyway, Masterson is one of the best shotgunners, for what it's worth, in the Special Region. Not that being a good shot is any indication of being a good soldier. Still, he could train MPs._


	17. Interlude II: Author's Commentary I

A young, barely adult man of some sort of foreign pervasion invites you over to the rather comfy looking seat next to him. Hair spiky, thick, eyes wide, and a face young. Some might even consider him cute. And hell, he might think the same way about you, so naturally he invites you over and draws up a round glass of scotch for himself.

"Matthew "BlueWay" Noelle…" he says, reflectively as he takes in his drink at a slow pace, looking at the frozen scene:

A Japanese lieutenant is punching a prince as four Americans try to get him to stop as they raise their guns and attempting to wrest a few slaves from their chains. Foreground you see the rushing guards; a princess, an emperor.

"Might not be my real name, but it still remains that I'm the one writing all of this," he says, getting up at the frozen scene and touching the Japanese lieutenant and the American captain on their shoulders, the two coming unfrozen in the scene. "Certainly makes me feel like an ass, but hey, I gotta have a little fun while I'm writing about slavery, imperialism, and death."

The two men, unfrozen, stumble onto the ground suddenly amidst frozen statues of people and time. After a daze, sharing a glance with the mysterious "author" in his pilot jumpsuit, they shake their heads once and come to their feet.

They know who they are.

You give the author a strange look.

"Come on," he says, the two soldiers coming behind him. "I bet you want to talk to them, with what they've been through with so far."

You've made it this far, so why not? You step out of the chair, not remembering where the scotch glass in your own hand came from.

* * *

"I have to wonder what you think of me." Emerson says to you as he sits on the steps outside of the Imperial City, all of them, you included, sitting and looking as the Imperial City burns after the destruction of an earthquake.

Not that you ever felt it.

You were just expecting it.

You shrug apathetically. "I like you. You're human." as was the general consensus. "I never saw you first as a soldier. You were Emerson to me, so far."

The man in question shrugs as he feels the ripping around his ear lobe, and then to the scar across his cheek. "Am I good man?"

You shrug again, unsure as you feel Imperial concrete under you, wondering what slave labor had built these beautiful stones to proper architecture. "I don't know what I'd do in your place…"

The author, Matthew, he chuckles and pats your back reassuringly, almost in victory, taking back another sip of his golden drink as the sky itself turns gold from fire and smoke. "As is the reason fanfiction exist, my dear reader. It's the reason why Kay here exists. He is the what if." he thumbed over to him, the man shaking his head himself as he hung back, defeated.

"I sound so unimportant if you put it like that."

Itami had only pat the man's chest with his fist as he himself hung back on his arms. "You're important to me." he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, adding his own speck of flame to the night. "You make me realize how fucking old I actually am, and that I'm a 33-year old otaku… Seriously, just think about that."

You have, subconsciously.

The author spoke up. "You're important to me too. And to the reader here," some of the scotch flies at you in droplets from the man's pointing with the glass holding hand. "Mikita might be my favorite child, but you're delivering an equally important message, right reader?"

* * *

Now the reason I really brought you here for, other than to flirt, but that's just me.

Itami and Emerson need some break time from the hell I'm gonna throw at them so they're with me to put it all in perspective, right next to you. And if you can't see 'em next to you, just imagine.

I brought you here so I could talk to you reader about what's happened thus far. Other authors, I think, waste this time in-between sections or parts, especially us fanfiction authors, who can do it with little repercussion. How I intend to use it is to just talk to you, if you want to listen.

If you don't, just hit the next chapter button if you want, and if it's available. I'm sure you want to find out what Kay's been doing for the last month over in Pina's mansion, mostly teaching her the basics of CQC while him and the Japanese ambassador are slowly building up the doves… and maybe some bread and circuses, but that's next chapter.

But anyway, all that aside, I'll talk to you about a few things, each chapter, what they mean, the characters, just general stuff I want to get off my chest so you have an idea about your own symboicisms and what messages I'm leaving.

Because it is true, I am teaching a lesson here. All good stories do, and something I notice with all the stories around this site is that they often lack messages. Not that I'm berating them, some people want to see scenes and ideas acted out, regardless of what they actually mean; but this is a story and I intend to teach and not leave it in a vacuum.

That lesson is, as many of you have found out by now: American intervention, the fine line in the sand between helping and hurting, imperialism, the cycle of history and the mantle of America.

All of them lessons, and maybe not all, I'm sure you'll find some more if you've been able to stick to this story for this long. That's the thing that surprised me, and maybe that was a gross assumption by me as I started out and thinking about the story I was gonna tell: who was gonna read this?

Well, maybe it helps I'm not buried under dozens of pages of fanfiction stories, but I'm glad I came out as early as I did with this story, that people looking for fanfiction of GATE seeing as the anime just came out, people whose imaginations are willing to go this forward, this early, can see what I'm doing.

I'm proud of you all for that.

This isn't my first story, but it might be the one that'll be completed first, which is why I mentioned Mikita up there.

Mikita Noelle was my first original character, my PTSD stricken, former Pokémon trainer turned soldier in a dark interpretation of a Pokémon world. His story isn't done yet, and I really need to return to my baby, but this story's importance, as it pans out, has me concentrated on this for now.

Chigurh too, his story, an Evangelion story, I expected to be well and away into the 7th Angel, or something, just so I could get this story done before Evangelion 3.0 + 1.0.

But things change, priorities come up, and quite frankly this is some of the smoothest writing I've had thus far in my life.

…

Yeah? You want me to make you two kiss huh? Yeah well, be careful what you wish for dammit!

….

Ignore them, they're two sides of the same coin… or at least, eventually.

Emerson, he is a character I made up in the span of five minutes. And that boded well for the story since his name is the one of the first things this story starts off on… Sarcasm, if you haven't noticed.

What kind of person did I want Emerson to be? Traumatized, a minority, a good officer, with little BS floating around him. He is, in a way, the anti-Itami. Crudely, the issue with him is black and white. If Emerson was just any other character in any other modern war story, we would see him as normal, and the most extreme thing, unfortunately, viewed upon him is the fact he is a bisexual. The absurdity of GATE needed a character like Emerson, so the need for him existed, in my mind, before his actual character himself. What he's grown into I'm quite proud of, and I'm glad he's among my OCs.

That and I have a little issue about, maybe I'm just getting a little socially crusadery here, the fact that a staggering amount of OCs I read on this site are either white, barely of age males, homogenous Mary Sues, or, in some cases, a dick with two legs just wanting to be bounced upon by a harem of self fulfilling ladies.

So a black, bisexual man who has no negative traits because of those things, was a natural pick for me amid all the craziness on top of it.

That's my reasoning for Emerson, anyway. I write him as best I can, as I do all my characters.

I discriminate only for plot, not because of my own beliefs.

The way I write characters, and I see a few people picked this up in reviews, is that I write them as human beings, not as a walking soldier trope, as people do. I never make emphasis on how fast they reload, or how good of a shot they are, or what their preferred custom weapon is. They're people first, then soldiers.

True not only in writing, but in real life.

These people live, breath, eat, shit, sleep, dream, and die the same as we do, and I have no shame making them do all that, and occasionally bleed. It's the same of how I think about the 200,000 I… or rather, Itami and Emerson over there, killed during Italica. Every single one of those people had a life, a story, a family, a mother and father. Stories as worthy as the one I am writing for Emerson.

When I kill people in stories, or my characters, they're killing people who have, or could've, given weight to the world, but are now denied.

It's not a healthy way to think, but it's how to make characters, and it works for my type of stories.

Say if I killed Emerson right now, you know the world would lose what he has to offer: his skills as a soldier, his aspirations of being a politician, his care for the people he commands. His history. You'd feel it. Same way someone, somewhere, in our world, has died right as you are reading this: either through nature or violence, and it's had, or will, have an effect.

That's the same for every single living individual.

I don't play Call of Duty much of the same way anymore, since I've developed this mindset.

Call it pretentious, but I keep it in the back of my head every combat scene I write: what if this person dies. What if I killed Cam? Or Lisa? How would each other react? Have I made them real, human enough, that if Lisa died, Cam's feelings would also be understood by the reader, not because I'm telling them, but rather because they knew who Lisa was?

Same thing goes for characters who aren't my own, or characters who are simply just roles: like Hazama.

Itami…

…

Yeah, I like you. More than I should, but I like you. Handsome.

Anyway,

When I took Itami into my own hands, I told myself I'd keep him the same at first, but eventually, as wars do, he'd strip himself down and realize who he really was. Because Itami in the original work is nothing but someone who carries the reader through GATE, a familiar name.

Here, he's an expanded, vulnerable person.

He smokes now, as you saw, he's still in love with Risa. He remembers what he is: a soldier, special forces even. And when compared with Kay he needs to step up, not only to prove himself, but to stay alive. As was the situation in Italica.

He's a thirty four year old man, god dammit, act like one.

Which is why I think Shino is necessary a bit, and I am setting her up to be an anti-Itami too, but also an opposite of Emerson. Her problem is, is what she wants to be: she believes all those fucking moto catchphrases, those great military commercials with great production value and Keith David talking over them, drawing you in to become a bad ass.

But I don't want to talk about her, she disgusts me.

Back to Itami.

He's interesting to work with as we go further, because he becomes how the original author of Gate, Takumi Yanai, is represented in Manifest Destiny. We saw him slip up with that Marine in Italica, his imperialistic views. How that will affect him, and the plot, will be revealed as we go along.

Along with the human note, I still don't forget that these are soldiers.

Not the ones in Call of Duty, where you are nothing but an arm and a gun, pointed at an enemy, but rather real soldiers, modeled after Generation Kill's, Band of Brother's, and The Pacific's soldiers stylistically, but having their roots in real people.

They kill people. They go on patrols. They do paperwork. They deal with officer bureaucracy and politics. They don't get a game over when they shoot a friendly or a child. They live long after the battle, the snapshot of a war.

That, in my opinion, is the difference between a good military soldier character: that they do more than just fight.

And it's important to go forward remembering that Itami is a soldier, a SOG, too. It's not apparent, it seems in the anime or manga, but that Mary Sue SOB who comes to have a harem of an elf, a magical Rei, a goth loli, and an angsty survivor, kills people and thinks nothing of it.

I won't throw away the fact 600 people, in the Manga, were killed in less than a few minutes.

I will make them live with their deeds all the way to hell.

Doc said this earlier, and I base his character off of Doctor McCoy from Star Trek, "A little suffering is good for the soul." So don't be afraid to hurt your characters. I give my main characters PTSD all the time. I make them lose eyes, limbs, children… Vulnerable, they all are. A bullet does not discriminate between Roman or Ranger.

…

Yep, you're on your way Emerson, you bet your ass.

….

The side characters? Bannon and Masterson namely…. Doc I'm slowly liking to write about, and I'm getting to Wilbur and, well, c'est moi.

I'd look out for Kurokawa too, Shino, the refugees and the Imperials as usual.

Bannon and Masterson were too characters I made to reflect two people from Generation Kill, and, I don't know about you, and I'd like someone to comment on them more often, I have succeeded in doing this with Masterson then I have with Bannon.

Masterson represents Generation Kill's Corporal Josh Ray Pearson, to which I owe my story's tagline too. A sarcastic, wise ass man who has no illusions about what America brings and the people who carry that answer… at least at the time of 2004. His words are so outlandish, but yet so emotional and in touch, that they are words to be listened to.

Bannon on the other hand is based of Sergeant Brad Colbert, of which is actually I believe, Generation Kill's main character. I've actually considered making her take the spotlight more often. They're both no nonsense, they've seen this before, I care about my people, NCOs. Chip off of their shoulders from beings raised in a privileged life, but taken away cruelly.

As for their relationship that they keep under wraps, at least in action, it'll become a crucial point during one of Hitman's more extreme plot arcs I'm planning.

Two sides to the same coin. And that's the same up and down the line with RCT3 and Hitman. They're a reflection of each other in some ways, showing off the ugly impurities of each other that some may not want to see.

It's a relationship I don't want to hide, as it's a very human thing for them. Uncomplicated, in the long span of things. You want smut however, go ask WaddleBuff to hurry up and get him to do Chuka, Lelei, and Shino.

Sex on the other hand… well, I'll keep it tasteful if needed. And that is if I decide to let that be on screen in anyway, because I'm getting to the point where I'll have to talk about rape and slavery, and I'm well aware this story is due a change in rating, but I'll stand my ground.

I don't hide these topics.

Shino, I've already explained some of her deal.

Doc, Pina is smitten with him, there will arise some complications.

Kurokawa will have to face that reality: You can't help everyone. Sort of a microcosm of us when we leave Iraq, Afghanistan, and watch people die.

Wilbur, I'm sure you guys have picked up he has some sins to redeem.

And as for me… disconnect. The closest you'll get to this story getting a hard on for modern military stomping on the Empire. Someone pointed out I was a fan of Ace Combat, and I am, but as I got to that previously established mindset, I realized how many people I was killed in StrangeReal, especially in a mission called Sea of Chaos in Ace Combat 5: Your squad is constantly praising for peace, but yet you are killing thousands of men and women in the process.

What kind of peace is that?

A peace where the dead don't scream at you.

* * *

The author snaps his finger suddenly, and you are back at Ginza, as it were, during the Incident, Emerson and Masterson frozen in time as they rush, black gas masks on, midfire, men having fallen behind them bloody.

 **"Intro 1."** the author says. "I'll take you on a trip, tell you where you've been thus far. That and I like being Q for a day." he says as he stretches his arms.

"I was writing the initial draft for this when I found out about GATE and was watching the first episode. I had just come off writing a few paragraphs for In My Keeping, and when I heard on /a/ that a Military Anime was coming out, a modern military anime, I sprang at it when it was available on a seedy anime streaming site."

The author takes Masterson's Ithaca shotgun from him and tosses it to you. You catch it with little problem, pumping it back and loading a new shell.

He takes Emerson's MP5 off of his back and slaps the bolt. "Heh. I like doing that." he remarks before telling you to fall in behind him, which you do. You've read enough of the story to pretend to know how to stack up like a Ranger.

And through the frozen street you walk. Romans standing, unbelieving of what was happening as the first Cobras fly overhead.

"You gotta start with a bang." he says as he takes a shield from a Roman and motions it at you, other hand making a point and shoot gesture. You nod as the author tosses it up, you blasting away at the steel and wood target easily. He claps amused. "Which is what I did, naturally. Started the pair of them from the bottom, and worked their way to having gear and guns. Draw people in with ass kicking, only to kick their asses in the end emotionally."

You walk with the author as you weave through the legions, finding yourself at the Gate itself, uncovered by a steel dome, past the dragon the two characters killed with their bare hands.

"Bigger in person, ain't it?"

You tilt your head and make an agreeing sound, playing with your shotgun, poking armor of Romans and beasts alike.

"Simple chapter, this was. Got me in the mood to keep going. How about you?"

He raises his hand and snaps again.

* * *

 **"Intro 2."**

Shotgun is gone, but the author seemed to have summoned a Ranger uniform on you: a base uniform of a fitting thermal shirt and combat pants. You look like one of Emerson's rangers, all of them cheering as the prime minister just declared that a Special Task Force would go over, Americans included.

Emerson himself looks wearily at the TV screen, Masterson dancing on the table as Bannon glares at her soldiers.

The author thumbs back to an unphased chef.

"See that cute young man right there? Brown hair, roundish face, thin?"

You stare at him a bit closer, raising an eyebrow as you try to find out what the author is implying. He smacks your back as hops over that counter and embraces the frozen man, only for him to be unfrozen with a stumble, as usual.

"This man is THE Shinji Ikari!"

You look oddly at him, but Shinji, still as timid as he was, even after everything had happened to him, waved and nodded to confirm.

"I snuck him in from In My Keeping. Let's just assume that this is the Final Instrumentality that Chigurh and Shinji wish for at the end of that story, assuming it gets finished…." the author kisses the barely older man on the cheek to his shock.

"He likes including characters from his other stories," Shinji says embarrassed as he palms his kissed cheek. "Reminds him that he does have other ones."

"Eh," the author says. "Anyway, this chapter introduced us simply to the intensity of the changed story, namely Sevson's speech and Seven Nations Army, with the Marines being introduced. From here on in, you know this isn't a word for word retelling of Gate."

Shinji leans over the counter as Matthew jumps back over, chewing on some left over French fries. "This chapter also introduces some of the squad and Staff Sergeant Bannon…Uncle Emerson sure is different in this story than Evangelion, is he?"

"Shush. I'm still working on your story Shin... anyway," he reaches into the man's pockets and brings out a little casette player. "You should notice that music plays a big part in this story, and I hope you don't ignore them entirely... **_Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" might even be this story's theme_** , or, at least, Emerson's theme. Truth be told it is music that is drawn from the early 2000s primarily, not because of nostalgia, but because indeed they were the soundtrack of the Iraq War... maybe I'll do character themes one day."

The author snaps again.

* * *

 **"Chapter 1."**

You are standing on the ridge RCT3 and their Hitmen stand on as they watch the Flame Dragon breath fire on the forest below, the orange glow reflected on their faces.

The author touches Masterson once, he falling flat on the ground as the younger man grabs his M95.

When he tosses the sniper rifle at you, you get thrown to the floor.

Masterson and the Author look over you. "So… these are the type of folk that are reading about my courageous deeds on this side of the Gate?"

"Yep."

"Prrrr!" Masterson looks rather seductively at you, only for you to kick his shin and fully bring the rifle up and hold it steady.

"Explain this chap, Cam."

Masterson shakes his head once after getting the pain out of his system, taking his sniper rifle back and looking back out to the dragon. "Matt here made this chapter to start getting the RCT3 and Hitman dynamic rolling, as well as to start on getting the differences between the JSDF and the Marines down. The odd comment on Emerson's race, plus the iPhone 20S also note a few subtle things. He also starts the "road trip" thing with our convoys. Expect more of that in the future, you here?"

You wave a finger at your own lips, Masterson realizing what you're referring too: his handle bar mustache.

The author answers for him. "If the grooming standard is lifted, you're gonna have fun with it."

"That's my man!"

"See you in a bit, Matt."

Another snap.

* * *

 _ **"Chapter 2."**_

The dragon stands above you, and you freak for a second, somehow automatically going for an M72 launcher on your back and aiming up at it. Not that there was any need. It was frozen, half way between a lunge and take off at one of the RCT3 vehicles.

The red dirt beneath you is unkind to the air, the dust being kicked up not healthy.

The author wipes his face as he picks up a few spent shell casings. "The big fight with RCT3 and Hitmen. I made a point for them to fuck this dragon up really badly." he nods at you as you unclick the safety pin from the M72 you fire it off and see, in slow motion, the dragon get hit at the head, frozen in a gory display that makes you both excited, and yet disgusted.

"Rangers are lean, mean, green. Perfect for taking on something that's red, fat, and scaly."

He snaps his finger again, but doesn't change the scene outright, instead going to the firing line RCT3 formed after the dragon was brought to Earth, Chuka in front of the crashed car, her body scratched, naked, and her eyes soulless and fearful.

The author reaches down to unfreeze her, but decided against it at the last second. "Also where we change her… make her a bit more unstable." he squeezes off a few sudden rounds at the beast with his own rifle, but of course, it hadn't been as explosive as your own potshot at the frozen beast. "The reason why I fucked this dragon up so badly is that it's the first real carnage, the real gore, that this story points out. Best to have it be something that isn't human. Same with Masterson and Emerson gouging the dragon's eye out back in the intro. My original draft had Emerson shoving his thumbs into a Roman's head, but I decided against it in the end.

He snaps, and so did she.

* * *

 **"Chapter 3."**

You're sitting with the author on top of the Marine-JSDF CP, Itami and Wilbur smoking or ingesting Nicotine gum. He pokes at the British man with a finger. "He's important."

"Cool down chapter, this was." he swings his legs back and forth off the ledge of the building's roof. You do the same in some childish delight. "Modern amenities to a backwards people, formal introduction to the refugees. The darker sides of the JSDF involvement here. Hot tub scenes, made a comment about Shino's stack. The usual. Prepared to go out to Italica… let's go there now."

The author pushes you off the building, but before you hit the ground he snaps.

* * *

" **Chapter 4.** "

You hit the ground on the defensive wall, arrows just short of hitting you, your throat left without air after you scream.

You're outfitted in Ranger combat gear, the muscle suit clamping down on your flesh, but also strengthening you as you push yourself off the ground a bit too hard.

The author catches you as you turn around and slap him for scaring you.

"Yow!... Alright, alright, I deserved that." he says, wounded, tossing you a Robinson XCR, what he has described as this world's new American combat rifle. He pats on his own muscle suit. "I based these off of Old Snake's suit in MGS4. Haven't even gotten into what they're capable of yet. Just you wait."

You both look at the running masses, the barbed wire in the ground just hidden beneath them.

"When I wrote this chapter I thought about Helms Deep from Lord of the Rings a lot." he says reflectively as he levels his rifle against the stone positioning, you reaching up and grabbing an arrow mid- frozen, flight. You break it in two as you do the same with a sniper rifle. "200,000 killed. That's a number that's very hard to get across in writing, and you know why I think every single one of those people out there are important. Tried my best to show the carnage of a human wave, on top of my idea for Lelei to introduce those chemical concoctions."

He waves over to the east, and you follow his gesture. "She gets the stage for a moment with her Rose Order and Myui: incompetence, I tried to paint on her. Her first war. And there's a difference between her actions and that of Hitman and RCT3, for this is their first war too."

He squeezes off a round as you keep looking at the east gate, shocking you to attention as you both stare out at a man whose head just had a hole in it, courtesy of him

"I'm actually rather proud of how I describe the effect of a bullet, in this chapter." he picked up the spent cartridge and throws it your way. "Hold onto that… and yeah. In videogames, you shoot people and they fall. That's agiven, it's how game design works with first person shooter. You shoot them and they die. But they forget, more often than not, the why. People don't die because they've been shot, they die because you make them bleed from the bullet, you scramble their organs, sever arteries. People don't die just because you pull the trigger and a bullet hits them, it's the cascading effect after that, and you have to face that in the field."

You eject the round in your sniper rifle and make it join with the spent cartridge in your hand. He takes the sniper rifle, only to lay it against the ground as you both walk over to Bannon, she prepping her AA-12 Assault Shotgun for heavy usage.

He pats her shoulder, stumbling as always, and dropping the gun.

"Lisa."

"Sir." she says in response, looking over to you skeptically, giving a warm, yet small, smile.

"Murderers or Martyrs… you ever found out which one you became?" the author asked as the two leaned against the wall, backs to the invaders.

"Could be both." she said simply, whistling as she pondered. It was the only time her voice sounded at all normal: when she hummed, sang.

"I made Bannon sound like a ghoul is for two reasons: One is to emulate a Generation Kill character, Godfather, and then other is to make her, if it is remembered by the reader, sound like a hard woman. Not that you are, Lisa."

The author wraps his arm around her reassuring for a second, she humming in agreement. "It's deceiving." she rumbles.

"Like a lot of things about you characters as Rangers… when people think Rangers they don't think of you."

"They think of hardcore spec ops, as Shino does." she agreed. "But it all takes a dark turn, from here on in… and this was only part one. Right?"

"Right. See you on the other side." and he snaps.

* * *

" **Chapter 5**! Gunner! Light 'em up!" BlueWay yells at you as you grip an M2 browning mounted on the side of this empty chopper appropriately, for balance and for dear life as he pilots the chopper like it was old hat, this time the scene moving: you are in the middle of the Battle of Italica in full swing. You see the Warlords slowly making their way and closing the vice that is the walls of flame, Italica itself, and the choppers above.

Without thinking you point the free swinging M2 down into the mass of the crowd, opening fire with little thought and holding down the trigger as the muzzleflash paints your face blindingly.

You barely here what the author says as he circles around, you making lines in the mass of people of red and gore.

What you do definitely here is Ride of the Valkyries being blown in the air.

"The full might of modern military power!" he says, the Huey's miniguns roaring to life as he makes a pass at a catapult, it splintering as he hollars. "I thought, in a way, this chapter was reckless! And I understand between the amounts killed and of how I treated the Rose Order! Oh shit! Hold on!"

The chopper heaves and banks right as it barely avoids a large spear, the sound of the chopper blades catching it and breaking it heard as you close your eyes and find whatever hand hold you do, the chopper spinning to the ground with what little blades it has left.

When you come back too after the loud, bone shattering boom and crash a raider has dared enter the wreckage, of which you are trapped in, looking over you almost like a hungry rabid man.

You try to go for any weapon, but the author blows the man's brains out as a Marine Chinook lands just near the wreckage. A kick to some shattered metal later and you are free, if not missing a leg. Not that you can feel it as you're crying obscenities and not understanding why the author isn't concerned at all as Marines surround you and force away the panicking crowds or raiders.

"See, this is escalation," the author says with his free hand gesturing. "A proper "oh shit" moment, when you have the Marines touch ground and occupy Italica! Charlie Don't Surf in Call of Duty 4, or crossing the border into Iran in BF3! That's the feeling I wanted to capture!"

He snaps his finger as you lose consciousness from the blood loss.

* * *

 **"Chapter 6 and I guess 7."**

You scream awake as you fall out of the bunk in your skinnies, all of Hitman looking at you as if you were one of theirs. You frantically pat your leg and find that it is still there.

"Before you could recover the author is preaching to you again as Black and Harris haul you to your feet and sit you down in the school half circle they've made, looking at the filmed footage of Italica.

"Tell you what, this is gonna be awesome when we release it." Harris says as you continued to keep on panting out of fear.

"Another cool down chapter before we head on over to Japan," he says as Hitman salutes him, even Emerson. "Itami's first imperialistic fuck up, a moment between Itami and Emerson, the Marine occupation starting… all good stuff." Emerson's e-cig is tossed his way and he catches it, turning it on and taking a few puffs himself before souring his face. "Don't like it… anyway, as you have probably noticed the quotes I sprinkle about the story are often present during major plot points… sorta my fool proof system, but the one in this chapter is from the big George Washington. Note that I've been using known American leaders we know today, compared and contrasted with the final quote of Section 1. You're not a bad person if you think he sounded tame compared to George Washington."

"Hey, I also said some pretty awesome things!" Masterson raises his hands, blocking out some of the footage from the projector.

The author wags a finger at him. "True, throughout these chapters I make the first few references to Japanese failures in the past and what Masterson thinks of who they are: Rangers and killing Americans."

He snaps, taking Emerson's cigar with him.

* * *

 **"Chapter 8."** Suit and tie, you are in as you stand next to the author, he holding a camera on the scene below in the Diet: a frozen, roaring Diet who seem ready to tear Itami's throat out of him for saying words he shouldn't have said. "This is where it's apparent I put my foot down on Japanese nationalism bullshit."

He took another blow of Emerson's cigarette before again souring and putting it in his pocket. "Admittedly I don't have a head for politics, or stuff like this, but I think I did okay… hell, even made Itami down there break down in the tunnel later."

He points to a Godfather in the seats, sitting as the rest stand. "Colonel Chigurh Baxa Andrade. Or, as he used to be known, Chigurh Moses Andrade." the man in question crosses his arm, fingers pushing up a pair of orange shades distinctively. "He's a good man, and he's looking out for Emerson. He owes the man, after all. I'll base him off Venom Snake, eventually, of Metal Gear Solid V fame, but this isn't his story… I also start to expand on some of the squaddies more. Doc and Loke in particular. Loke is almost another Emerson in a way: a former Muslim, Pakistani, female Ranger who doesn't like hurting people, but will. Doc has had his life almost taken away from him, so he's out there on the front of life and death helping people pull themselves back from the brink."

He sat back in a seat as you continued to look into the crowd of angry, civil men and women, and then to the refugees, standing their ground in their seats.

"I'm not gonna make the mistake of giving every Hitman a name, however. That'd just be too much… also I give Lelei's role in the story a foreshadow, if you can find it. One review already has."

A snap.

* * *

 **"Chapter 9 and 10."**

You're sitting in your slacks with the vacationing group in Risa's house, some yaoi in your hand being read as you struggle to realize that it is, you putting it down after the shock.

"Is it really that bad?" Risa seems to almost cry at you. You raise your hands defensively, saying you're just not into that kind of stuff.

The author stands over Risa and, perhaps a little condescendingly, pats her head as Itami raises an eyebrow. "This chapter I introduced this lovely lady and get the ball rolling on Pina and Bozes' education on the modern world and us. Is all… that and it's a break chapter."

"I have to keep telling myself this shit is acceptable because of its source material, but I went with it, and I took them two to the library and for her to feel nuclear fire first hand. I'm sorry, Miss Bozes." the author bowed before the royal, however all she did was nod her head kindly and return to her doujin. "As I writer," he said as he got up. "I have to deal with being the person who makes characters do horrible things to themselves and each other, and I am indebted to them in that way, in return for them carrying my story… giving them a little time off, and, as insane as it sounds, talking to them helps."

"You think he's nuts?" Rory had asked you, you immediately recoiling from the fact the priestess was addressing you. Silence was your answer as he snapped you away.

" **Chapter 11.** "

A frozen snap of the resort firefight, Rory's blade going right through a Triad and a boar's torso in one swing, cutting them in half as your feet get wet, standing in the pond.

"I still get a lot of flak, for this chapter, but it was hard to work with." he says as you pick up the Luger off the man that Pina would soon try to claim for her own. You manipulate the unusual slide and eject the magazine, rendering the gun empty as you hand it to the author, wondering what his intent for this was.

"Ah yes. This thing saw a hundred years of warfare, as was the intent of that little descriptive spiel." he puts the magazine back in and racks it. "This gun still falls into Pina's hands eventually, don't you worry about that. This Luger is important, after all… this absurd chaos, all of it," he out stretches his arms to the night sky. "I had to write this part drunk, remember."

"What's the deal with the Enfield and the cowboy guns you have Emerson and his sergeants?" you asked as you picked up one of said guns: the SAA, as you toyed with its metal hammer.

"Weapons of an age gone by, still held on them. It's part of their initial description in Chapter 12. That and it feels right for Masterson to start blowing people away with Peacemakers when Hitman starts to standby their principles… maybe Emerson will start being influenced by Skullface and Major Walker in my writing.

"What was the deal with Shino?" the words fall out of your mouth. The author looks back at you surprised.

"That little performance of CQC? I'm planning on having her and Bannon go at it again, CQC. This was just the prelude. Hand to hand combat is always something of a specialty of mine if you look across my stories, even in that one Amourshipping one I got. It's more physical, more engrossing than a firefight, more involved. It drives the reality of combat home, and when the Imperials get the chance to actually take on the Rangers in CQB, they'll be on equal ground for once."

"Or have you been playing too much MGS Five?" you question the author more.

"Perhaps." he grins. "I make it pretty clear that Itami and Risa are still a thing in this chapter, plus I put a little shenanigan with Mitch calling for an impromptu memorial with world leaders attending. Obama included. Thought that was cool when I was inebriated."

He snaps again, for the last time, you imagine.

* * *

" **Chapter 12.** "

Freeze frame of a tavern, Yao and Wilbur locking swords heatedly, sparks in the air.

After moving the frozen Wilbur out of the way, a tap to his shoulder unfreezes the man as he tries to stab the air to no target, jittering and looking around, unsure of what was happening before he sees the author.

"Yo."

"Aye."

"Wilbur here was actually going to be a bad guy, but I cut that out real fast once I realized it would be a waste. That and he was actually someone else's OC that someone offered for this story. The guy pulled at the last second, but the tanker remained."

The man shrugged as he sheathed his sword, running his hand across Yao's cheek once before turning away. "I used to be another Texas oilman. Now I'm just a runaway BP surveyor."

"I think you're better off this way Alton." he snapped his fingers, and the scene unfroze, the bar raising his glasses to the British man as he blushed and tucked his arms in, Yao giving him a quick peck on the cheek. You were inclined to raise your glass as well, but you had none. "Check your pockets. Delilah will take casings for cash."

And so you did, finding the spent cartridge and the sniper rifle round in your pocket, Delilah gladly taking them off your hand and replacing it with a wooden mug.

"This chapter," Yao started as she sheathed her sword. "Starts to establish the "Berlin Wall" scenario which The Corridor will eventually become. Between Italica and Arnus. The fact that the children prefer the English language will be a topic of "lingua franca" eventually."

"That," Wilbur added. "and the fact we get a glimpse to how life is a month into this new story, the Americans still playing their part: Bannon's land ownership scheme working in the background. Like a Las Vegas strip or Piccadilly, but more rural, and medieval, and all that good stuff."

"'Fraid I didn't expand on the PXs too much, but maybe I'll come back around when the embassy and the PX is set up in the capital?" the author says.

"I'd like that." You said as you took a sip.

"All in due time… I'm still waiting for what point I'll start to directly split off from the story, because I've been making that in the background this entire time. But the time needs to be right, and some things are worth following in GATE."

"You must do this a lot, naturally, right reader?" Itami and Emerson are there behind you as they pass you and sit at the bar, offering you a seat in between them. Itami is all the same as he usually is: his green combat uniform on him. Emerson is different: dress in white robes, his ears extended by some trickery that made him look like a dark elf like Yao.

Itami had been the one to say as he had gotten a drink. "What?" you ask.

"What if you were there, with us." Emerson relents as you retrieves his cigar from the author. "Perhaps that is also the reason why Matt keeps some of the Rangers unnamed and unidentified. Male, female, age regardless, who they are. All a blank slate. Maybe you'd like to be in this story too?"

You look at him blanked, a raised eyebrow.

"OCs." the author says as he bars his wooden mug against yours in cheers, you both taking a sip for the first time. "I'm not opposed to someone who wants to see their own written by me as a secondary character, it's how I got my wonderful Wilbur over there in the first place. So don't be shy to send me a bio, just to entertain the thought."

"I can be in this story?" you ask.

The author pats your shoulder. "You always have been in a way, hell," he points toward the two main characters. "If you have any questions for them, just drop 'em by me, if you want to have fun."

They wave and nod in agreement.

"Now, I bet you're tired of this silly little self-insert trip into Section 1 of my story, I'll drop you off."

He snaps again.

* * *

"Now we're… _**wait**_."

His snapping away has seem to have led you to another helicopter, a freeze frame of Itami and Emerson inside of a chopper, Chuka diving outside with Itami's rifle, you peer over the side: that red beast whose name was Death.

Emerson is holding Itami back from following her, Rory inside as well with nothing but an ugly, Cheshire smile.

"Ah." the author says solemnly as he picks up the already pulled clacker of an explosive trigger. "This… sneak preview, I guess."

He snaps again before you get a full bearing on the scene.

* * *

" **Section 2-1.** "

Emerson is sleeping like a baby on one of the royal beds in what you assume the royal castle of the Imperial City, his ears still transformed.

"I'll be with you shortly." the author says, leaving.


	18. 2-1: Do as They Do

A/N: I'm back and I bring 33 pages worth of reading.

As for what I bring: Section 2.

This is my great experiment in delivering a bit of a more personal narrative, as opposed to the all encompassing military story I have building, if just for a chapter or two. This personal narrative forming around Emerson's visit to the Capital with Kouji, that envoy to the Empire on Pina's request. This gives Emerson the ability to acclimate into and understand the people a bit that'll make his actions, and therefore, America's, more in line to what they will actually do when confronted with the big slavery problem.

If Japan is America as it is the Middle East Today, America in my story will have to face opposite of them. This is me saying definitively, it starts here.

Emerson is the advance scout as Kouji is, and they will take the information they have to their commanders, and they will interpret it differently, because, here's the thing: in the broad perspective of things, this story has not crossed the barrier of splitting off from its source entirely yet. Sure, it dabbles in it: killing 20,000 at Italica instead of 600, expanding Italica and Arnus into more of a nation state in the making, but there hasn't been that one clinching moment where I can definitively say "Yes. I've fucked up the storyline entirely."

I'm waiting to see where I can do it, most likely around the time the Flame Dragon take down comes around.

Anyway, in this section I'll be introducing a few more side characters, look out for them. A Lieutenant Colonel from the Navy, giving a name to Kingdom Come's loader, a slave, just to name a few.

Review responses -

MicroZombie - You know, I made Nutt say something similar to what you're recognizing, and indeed, what a lot of people are recognizing about the soldiers in this story: they're people first, soldiers after, ideally. And that's part of my beef with Shino: how quick she is to discard her humanity in war, to sacrifice it. I like what a lot of you reviewers are saying: we had to lose a generation, and Shino is going to be the first of her own.

It's nice you understand, how tired, I make America in this story through its people.

Thuzan - I like how your reviews progressed from "wow this is awesome" to "oh god what have i gotten myself into" with this story. That is justification for me that I did something right at Italica: making people imagine Rory impaled and dressed up in gore on her own halberd, soldiers crushed and bloated from being run over by tanks, people evaporating by gunfire to a bloody mist. You and MicroZombie have vocally expressed this: that this is war as it is displayed in this rare form: viscerally and horribly.

Anyway, as for the Luger. I chose the Luger for a very specific purpose. Think about what that gun represents in the world, what it stood for. Then think about how well designed it is, and how complicated it was to machine. That is the challenge of the gun that I present to Pina when she is able to acquire it later. How she will use it... well, you'll see.

ATP - Yes, I agree, America has made horrible mistakes and people have paid and atoned for it. That is our collective guilt. Do what you will, but wherever you come from has this advantage over America: you are not Americans. Be proud of that, and do not blame us for what you cannot see happen to your own country in the future.

We just lost our first soldier to ISIS, and now our blood has been spilled again on those sands, perhaps, in some way, our own fault.

When I sat down to originally draft this story, I didn't argue to myself that America was a character, all by itself, and in order to portray America like an old friend in the background; in our memory. I decided to just remember this particular passage from Raymond Chandler's "The Simple Art of Murder" that I came across recently. Imagine America as a man as so:

 _He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honor in one thing, he is that in all things. He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man's money dishonestly and no man's insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The story is his adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in._

 _If there were enough like him, I think the world would be a very safe place to live in, and yet not too dull to be worth living in._

 _Raymond Chandler, on detective main characters, 1950_

Rear Mirrors - For someone writing this type of story, yeah, consider me, the author, as Colonel Konrad. I'm flattered. And I heard you out on the furry thing, but, speaking frankly, I doubt an American/Western serviceman would know the proper terminology for walking animals other than furries.

Modern Armed Forces - No. I don't hate Islam. It's just another religion, and America is tired of them, for all the pain that is has brought broadly. Japan will know religious extremism because of Rory, soon.

In General - I'm wondering whether or not to have Emerson keep his ears on for the rest of the story, but I'm leaning more on tearing them off when revealing his true identity to the Emperor soon: he is an African-American, and he is proud of that. No other definition of him will do in his mind. In speaking of who he is now, Major Walker will start coming up more often, instead of just throwaway references. He is a part of why Emerson is quiet today, comparatively, reserved, but can bring all that rage out in combat, and we'll actually have Emerson display more of his combat prowess soon.

I know, often times, soldiers aren't defined by combat actions and their ability to do them: moreso the courage of actually pulling them out, but Emerson is a modern soldier, a Ranger, and I have not forgotten he is special forces as much as Itami.

All of Hitman, they're human, yes, but I will never make you forget they can kill easily, and that will drag some of them down mentally as this story goes on. Emerson is only much more susceptible to metal trauma.

So before I set you guys off on Section 2, I'll leave you with one of my depressing, sappy statement:

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _If it is the goal of every generation to leave the world a little better than how they found it, they they will be judged in the end, by what they take from that world._

* * *

 _ **Beginning to Section 2**_

 _ **Section 2-1**_

* * *

Events in my life which I don't exactly look fondly on are often ones of rude awakenings:

When I woke up in the hospital after Professor Jie had his time with me.

The nights afterwards when I woke up after those nightmares of bloody knuckles and his face beaten into the concrete righteously.

Whenever Major Martin Walker had spurred us awake during RASP, beat to hell, near death, and exhausted, and told us to run three miles or be worthless as Rangers and human beings.

Having my head shoved underwater and told to hold my breath or die in training.

Waking up in my family's apartment in the middle of the night as the social rights revolution took place on our doorstep and the 101st Airborne patrolled New York City streets to keep order.

Getting dragged off a bench on the sidewalk of some street in Tokyo by my bloodied staff sergeant, and kill my first human being.

I suppose this counted, cold water splashed on me as I went for my bedside Winchester, my hand wiping my face as I rolled off the bed in a flurry of white sheets, my own robes, and assorted paper scrolls.

"Hey. You're the one who told me to wake you up like this." she had said in her forced low voice. In moments of weakness I'd hear the voice she really had: one that fit a nineteen year old in reality, not the forced low growl that she tried to force.

I stopped trying to grab for my gun as I checked my pointed ears: the makeup and stitching had still been going strong.

"Don't mean I like it, princess."

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

 _ **D-Day + 25**_

 _ **The Special Region – The Imperial Capital, Sadera Hill – Royal Palace – Eastern Mansion**_

* * *

"Christ, I feel like a spoiled brat with what the places we've been posted recently." I said as I had gotten the sheets back onto the feathered bed and brought apart the veils, tightening my robes as I sorted my notes.

Pina had chuckled as she saw me struggle. "Can't recognize luxury when you see it, Emerson?"

I checked my Winchester for water damage, nothing coming up, I putting it back into its leather casing. "Perhaps, princess. Feather beds plucked from giant chickens, beautiful maids, banquets, and these rather plush robes aren't bad though."

The smell of Cyprus wasn't a bad thing to smell in the morning, as it were, and after the initial cold shock had come over me, I had put myself at attention and saluted Princess Pina Co Lada, a few moments after she had beckoned a cadre of such maids standing ready, a Japanese man waiting in the hallway.

I had come to the Imperial Capital, and indeed, I had been one of first of the modern people to come, on the request of this nineteen year old royal before me. Returning from Ginza and fairly directly to the gleaming Imperial Capital had been perhaps a bit… underwhelming. Pina had been a little butt hurt I hadn't had the same awe in my eyes she did with Tokyo, but still, it was something as I saw aqueducts and masonry of an old world before my eyes: living and breathing.

The area was something of a cliffy and hilly affair, ornate buildings with burgundy and golden tops on those cliffs like every other interpretation of Rome I had ever seen across the fairy tales for a jaded society: three tiers like something out of that old location in an old cartoon series called Ba Sing Sae.

Defensive walls had cordoned the Imperial Capital off along its outer border: a massive piece of land that would've made Rome itself shy away in size, but that giant circular piece of territory on a rather defensible position of valleys and cliffs had been split into three: Common, Military and Tributaries, and then the actual high hill itself for the Magistrates and the Royals. The commons and the common people who had the "privilege" of living in the Imperial Capital had been on the outermost fringes of the territory, the ghettos and the villas extending inward until cut off by another defensive wall.

I was an American History major, and I could've told anyone about the benefits of the Federalist Papers and the misguided use of nullifications during the desegregation of schools in the 1960s, however I wasn't such an expert in Roman politics. However that was the thing that had taken me and Suguwara Kouji, the Japanese special envoy, off guard: that it was exactly Roman politics.

I and he had been the envoys of our countries, technically, backed up by a group of two guards from the JSDF. Pina wouldn't have any other American set foot in the capital yet, for a reason which I wouldn't argue: one nation at a time, she said.

Between the both of us however, we understood the basics of Roman politics as Pina had been more than pleased to know that such a thing had existed. She held onto Doc's notebook dearly, after all, all that knowledge she had on us worth more than its weight in gold.

Roman politics had worked out very simply, a Roman Republic being the gold standard that even American had looked back on in some democratic fervor: The people of Rome who could vote (as there had been such a group that couldn't, Pina had neglected to tell me what kind of people, but me and Kouji held in our guesses) had voted for their senators and tributaries to represent them at the Roman senate, from there those elected officials were given government roles not to different from modern governments: treasurers, justices, taxation overseers and the like. Those would govern Rome from the senate rather straight forwardly in great chambers and shouting matches until decisions had been made, however the military would be directed by a group of those senators, all of whom eventually bowed before an emperor or dictator.

That emperor had been Pina's father.

Not that we had seen him yet. Nor would she allow us to. A balancing act on her part, of which I was indebted to her for.

Kouji, man of a tall build and glasses as he was, along with his guards, had been able to fit In just on the fact their skin had matched the overall tone of the regular Imperials, however that was not the same case for me.

Rome in my world had been an empire of assimilation and conquest, as was this one, but in all their countless years of existence they had never come across a people with the skin color I had save for dark elves.

And so a dark elf I would be in order to blend in to the Imperials.

Doc and Nutt had seen the impromptu operation/makeup session that had, courtesy of the surplus of pointed ears from the new Star Trek TV series that had been ongoing, made me into either a Vulcan or, depending how you looked at it, a dark elf.

The ears was really all that I needed. Hopefully the Imperials noticed I didn't age as dark elves did.

I had even, upon her request, and much to Rory's delight, had taken a name in order to go about the Imperial Capital with her with little complication:

"Kay Ro Bronxon." of the Bronx Clan from the far off jungle of Manhattan.

That is what I introduced myself to the first test in this little experiment of ours: turning war hawks into doves, senators who clamored for war, persuaded to speak for peace. It was the government that controlled the soldiers at the end of it, and still the Imperial Army had been reorganizing at a frightening rate.

She had told the senator, a rather old man with a hunch on his back and not much for making his own decisions, that I was from a elven clan from outside the borders of the known world, and that I was a combat master under her tutelage as her own mentor was in Italica along with the rest of the Rose Order.

The disguise had worked for a handful of such politicians.

And in essence, I lived it as well in the downtime, as I was training Pina in the art of combat as I knew it… without the firearms and cutting edge technology of course.

She saluted me down as the maids delivered my fresh white robes of the day, I not exactly minding with how much skin was shown. Apparently dark elves were rather loose with clothing, according to the comments of the senators who had frequented brothels in some far flung lands of the Empire.

"Is Lucius complying to which side he's gonna be on?" I asked regarding one of the converted politicians we had persuaded yesterday.

"To all indications, yes, Emerson."

"So I suppose today is a free day?" I asked with an inquisitive eyebrow.

She had simply shaken her head in some disapproval, but not enough to actually force out a word of it. "After training."

My grin I gave had gone away as she rested her chin on her palm, the maids going behind me and straightening out my bed. I noticed the black marks on it of ink, dried overnight.

"How is it that I, a foreign soldier in the capital of his enemy, is able to get a better night's sleep than a princess?"

The answer was sleeping pills. Not that I'd let her try any. Not many of the new inhabitants of this so called "Corridor" between Italica and Arnus had taken everything being sold at the PXs well. Not that the Japanese would recognize any fatalities done by the grace of overdosing.

"Just soak it up, Emerson. Just because you have the day off, doesn't mean I'm not busy." she pouted.

"Still stalled on getting that meeting with Lord Cicero?"

"Next week, probably." she said with a nod before clearing her tired throat, her face still unwashed from the night of stress and paperwork. The bags underneath her eyes had made me sad in a way. They were of the same measure as me and Kouji's, and the only thing I really had on her was that claw like scar from one of her lieutenant's written on my cheek. She looked down once before looking at me in the eye, what height difference existed she had gotten used to now. "I would like to have breakfast together before we commence our training, today, Captain Emerson."

Kouji had walked beside her, walking around the maids that had carried away used and crumpled sheets, a glance back revealing the room had been without a spot out of place in the span of that one conversation. "I know it's not wise," he started as he had taken one glance too long at the backs of one of the maids, "to eat before you train, Captain Emerson, but we just want to touch base on what we've done so far before we taken on Cicero. Might as well have something to chew on, during it."

Pina had nodded in agreement, going up and adjusting the buckle that had held the robe together on my shoulder, straightening it out.

"That," she said warily. "and I'm afraid of letting you out of my sight and out in the Capital."

I had only taken small offense to that. To people outside of New York City, it had seemed like pure madness for kids, not even teenagers yet, to roam the boroughs with little restraint. And they had a point, as most good parents would say, but just because the idea was good doesn't mean that it was a state of being: I being one of those kids who had gone from alleyway to alleyway, rooftop to rooftop, trying to find my own escape from that urban jungle.

It was almost nostalgic: Pina telling me that she'd worry for me out on these streets, quite removed from her own manor on Sadera Hill.

The hand that came out to adjust the buckle had been from the arm marred in ink: in her ear, Doc's pen. I grabbed the pen out of its position on her ear, put there like a piece of jewelry, and as she realized what I had taken from her she had freaked.

I had heard that she had it, seen it in glances, but I never realized the nature of the pen that Doc had gifted to her, and it spelled out loads. This was considering the twitchy, ten-times-older than he looked, thirty year old that Doc was.

It was a simple, practicality over form, ballpoint pen that, from a distance, could've been mistaken as a slim bullet or blade: a slightly curvy line that had spoken to a rather eloquent penmanship in its silver body and golden accents: the gold clip of the pen having a singular red cross that denoted what kind of man this pen came from.

This was one of Doc's personal pens… or at least the same brand.

She had jumped up to get it from me, but I simply lifted my arms above her head as she struggled. In another world, maybe I shouldn't have been doing this to royalty, but she was my student in a sense now.

Her former tutor in the art of war had been an Imperial Knight, albeit a greying one, appointed to her as something of a babysitter at first.

She had been the fifth child: the tenth in the succession for ruler of the Empire. The result of a concubine and Emperor Molt, before she had turned ten her taste in the dramatics of the battlefield and of conquest was not to be understated, her charisma, no matter how cheeky, being one that led her to be the head of an order of child knights who also shared her love of knighthood.

Not too different from how I used to play soldier as a child, I presumed.

However playdates and imaginary scenarios had turned into real actual military training from the age of ten all the way to now, she being trained like a regular knight of her Empire, along with the other daughters and sons of many Imperial royals.

When they came of age, the males of the group had the chance to actually live out their knightly dreams (probably being killed at Arnus, Italica, or Ginza, if I was guessing correctly), the females, as is the case of gender roles in a society such as this, were kept back and made lapdogs, more or less, at Molt's feet.

The members of the Rose Order that had come back to the Capital I had sparred with too in mock combat, and they were great fighters, great people, in general. That I had no doubt in my mind, but they were still women, and in this day of age they had no right to be out in the battlefield according to the general tacticians.

The chip on Pina's shoulder had come from her female Rose Order being held back, and when given the mission that sent her to Italica to investigate us, she failed.

So it was no surprise her first sparring punches had surprising force behind it. But her disgruntled feelings regarding being made only an honor guard was understood. She fought well, lead well. She did defend Italica before we had shown up, after all.

But that was only a week ago, she had been slowly learning what I knew about combat on her level.

Certainly not enough for her to be able to retrieve what seemed to be her most prized possession as of late.

Kouji had looked at me in some form of disinterest, as did most of the maids, but still Pina tried and tried as I looked at it for a second, over and over, before finally giving it back to her, her face both distraught and soured at me.

"It's just a pen, Princess Co Lada." I stated, not a joking voice, not a chiding voice, but the voice I used with my men.

"It was a gift from one of your men, captain." she said, running a strip of fabric that had graced her arms over its sheen and wiping fingerprints away.

"Yeah, Doc's."

"Decker's." she said his real name to my surprise. "Even if it does not work anymore, I shall cherish it simply as a gift."

I shook my head fancifully as I put on the sandals given to me at the foot of my bed, the group of me, Kouji, and the princess slowly making our way down high halls and marble pillars.

My bedroom had been reserved for one of her brothers, actually, but that particular brother had been off in some far off land exploring and making his dad proud. When I asked for his name, Pina didn't exactly remember. It helped make me not mind being bedded in the ornate and well-furnished chambers of royalty.

As was the case of most of my squad: their bunks, or rather, actual beds in Myui's Fromar Keep.

Needless to say my soldiers slept like babies between the work, the well-kept sheets, and, I had made sure I sterned Harris and Sergeant Kurata on this, the company of beautiful women and men of several different species.

I'm sure Bannon had kept them in check in my absence.

I asked this time before I took the pen back, she trying to put it back in its tuck behind her ear. She had gratingly obliged as I extended it with a twist and tried to write on the back of my hand. Another twist and she had yelped when it seemed like I broke it, but only to reveal an empty ink cartridge.

"You've been doing a hell of a lot of writing, princess." I took the plastic tube and put the pen back whole, she taking it gingerly.

If I hadn't known any better she had developed something of a crush on Doc.

"It's been… necessary with the revisions to the economical and political documents I intend to present during the peace talks." We had stopped at an intersection, Pina following one of her maids down, but not before pointing us in the direction of the dining hall. "Can you fix it?"

I nodded as I remember where those peace talks were going to be held: Italica, on the grounds of the Marines. "Yeah. I'll see if I can't get that sent down when my kids get here."

She had slightly chuckled as she understood why I called my soldiers kids. She knew the feeling.

A cool, even pleasurable gust of wind had come in from those large halls, curtains flowing majestically from open windows like heavenly specters, reminding me of where I was.

"Thank you, Emerson." I nodded at her thanks. "I will join you shortly, but I need to take care of myself first."

I licked my lips as I looked at the empty plastic tube, the remnants of dried ink in its casing. Just a standard ink cartridge, despite the pomp of the pen it fueled…

"Princess." I barked out before Kouji led me toward the dining hall, she turned my way. "Don't get attached to things that easily. Just another liability in the field, you hear?"

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 43**_

 _ **The Special Region – One night's travel to the Imperial Capital**_

* * *

Emerson had been amused as he saw the first of his squad touch down: their winged forms to the sunset, the Chinook trailing them down slowly.

They came, one by one at first, but as they methodically pulled their landing chutes, they had bunched up as one form toward the clearing like a bird of prey.

Loke had hit ground first a good twenty or so seconds before Hitman's favorite cowboy did, she releasing her parachute to the winds, taking the final fall all by herself, fists on the dirt and in a kneel rather dramatically.

The mechanical clicking of her wingsuit being pulled back into their casings automatically along the exoskeleton-like addition to their uniform had been only secondary to the sound of her getting her PDW from her chest and raising it up, making sure the DZ was clear as the pointman.

Perhaps it was just to prove that they hadn't gotten rusty in the month he was away, a group of carriages, horses to guide them, Emerson, Hamilton, and Pina the only ones in the clearing. They had made sure of it.

She had ignored the people, seeing as they were non threats, pushing past us to the royal's confusion, even Emerson not getting a reaction as he cocked his hands on his hips and continued to stare up into the sky beneath his grey cloak of Imperial, gladiator design.

Masterson had hit the ground masterfully, he riding with his parachute down all the way, only to cut it off the second he touched ground, tossing a JSDF helmet to the ground as he brought his M4 sideways and immediately covered the direction opposite of Loke, aiming down the backup sights without a cheek weld.

"2-1 Actual has touched ground!" he yelled as he sighted down range.

"Copy!" Loke had shouted back to confirm, she releasing her MP5 to swing back down onto her kit as she retrieved her own rifle from her back. "No hostiles!"

" _ **Hold ground!**_ " he ordered in response.

Nutt came down a bit harder, but no less smoothly, he hitting ground and rushing to cover ninety degrees from the two Rangers already down.

"Nutt, see anything?!" Masterson yelled out.

The man took a knee as he swept the tree line with his vision. "Negative can't see shit!"

The sound of barking and the quiet touch down of Peters had signaled that he made it with little difficulty, even with the extra few dozen pounds that Hitman's combat dog, Khan, had added, he being detached from Peters' kit as smoothly as his parachute did, the dog growling hard as it rounded the circle that the four men made. It was almost like a compass, the green flares on their backs still burning and designating the LZ for rest of the Rangers to touch down.

Like a flock of birds they hit the ground, talons out, and spreading out to secure the perimeter. Just like training, men and women going on their knees and stomachs in prone as they aimed their weapons up and out, cutting their chutes.

"1-1 on ground!" Bannon yelled as she threw her goggles off with her mask, securing her eyepatch again on the opposite, undamaged eye. She was the last one out. "We clear!?" she yelled as she took center, picking up the helmet Masterson dropped and slowly making her way to in front of her officer.

" _ **Clear!**_ "

" _ **Clear!**_ "

She gave a half smirk at Emerson and a raised eyebrow, expectantly, her one faded eye staring right at him: dead in color.

"Alright, alright, I'm impressed." He rose his hands defensively, Bannon putting on a rare smile from her aggressive smirk and slacking her form as she had cradled her newly retrieved Enfield in her arms.

The tenseness of the squad that had been forced on them had all been let go in one heave and ho, a chuckle around as they more than realized there was no danger here, just a show. All of them had weapons that weren't standard issue, Emerson realized, the weapons they had grabbed from the criminals at Hakone.

Asides from the M21s, the M4s and M16s with the occasional M60, there had been civilian sector Kalashnikov variants strapped to the backs of some in five fifty six. Doc's Luger had been on his chest holster, and Masterson's cowboy guns had been on his form proudly displayed among other weapons used by criminals.

They were Hitman's token souvenirs, all things considered. Emerson looked to the cameras, and all of them were still on, still recording. He nodded contently.

Fuck all to regulation then, he thought. Not that he had anything to say with his Winchester, it having gone through a transformation at the Capital. Same as him.

Bannon saluted, and Emerson saluted in turn. "Nice to see you in one piece, captain." she said, nothing his new, almost knightly attire.

"Likewise, sergeant." Masterson and Doc had come up to Bannon, Masterson reaching out a hand and taking his captain's forearm, dragging him into a hug.

"Oh how I missed my token black friend." Masterson had mockingly whimpered into Emerson's shoulder as he patted him on the back, generally waving at the squad as they all turned around from their perimeter positions and formed a school circle, saluting both their absent commander and the royals. "I don't know how I'd survive without you."

"I missed you too, Cam." Emerson relented, the man pushing his officer off a bit, only to hand him a kit and a rifle. Eagerly he had donned it as Doc walked over, a package in hand for Pina on the way.

"Princess," Doc had nodded at Pina politely as he had walked over to Emerson, but pausing for him to rip open the papered package: ink refills she had graciously taken with a wordless blush. "Nice to see my gift has found some use." he tipped his finger at the pen in her ear, she tilting her head sweetly as he nodded on toward his captain, a flashlight in hand as he had put his hand on his captain's neck and brought his head down.

Emerson's ears had been the feature worth checking, and, as Doc had looked for how good the makeup and the stitching was holding up, Masterson had seen the straight, pale scar on Emerson's left elbow: a sword mark, if anything else. The largest of the collection of scars Emerson had been collecting, physically speaking.

He took the arm again and ran his fingers over it before the Chinook's noise had drowned out all their voices.

"Th' fuck is this, Kay?"

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

 _ **D-Day + 25**_

 _ **The Special Region – The Imperial Capital, Sadera Hill – Royal Palace – Eastern Mansion**_

* * *

Italica broke a lot of records for the Marine Corp and the US Military, it having been the most devastating, most one sided, most indiscriminate battle in all of modern military history and, if someone considered it, ancient history.

The Warlord tanks, all of them with video recording, had been chalked up as the deadliest armored formation the worlds had ever seen, a huge chunk of the approximate 20,000 killed under their treads: flattened and ran over by tons and tons of steel.

Wilbur hadn't pondered too much on that fact. He was a tanker, an oil man, used to destroying the world… maybe he was used to it. Not that I would believe that.

To walk away with so many dead beneath your belt… a weight that would pull people to earth, to Hell.

Chris Kyle's bloody throne had a new holder: Specialist Ryan Valentine, one of the 7th MEU's scout snipers who had told his Little Bird to drop them on top of the Fromar Keep and rained hellfire down on the bandits. With that he had become America's deadliest sniper by body count alone. That body count had been three hundred and twenty five: all done out by the grace of his M21EBR.

The reason for that was both fair, and unfair, at the same time. Whatever war this was was inherently unfair: a modern society versus a one of Roman standing, regardless of the magic, the new factors such as dragon mounts and new species of humanoids.

But it was more than that.

Across time soldiers had always existed as long as there had been civilizations; before that: killers. But to think as soldiers as one concrete idea, image, throughout all time was, in my mind, a joke.

I was a higher grade soldier, a better idea of a soldier, than any legionnaire here could be.

Not because of my gear, and a fair amount given to my training, my health of growing up in the society I did, but because of what I fought for at the end of it:

I swore an oath to America when I joined, and I pledged to not inherently herself, but the idea for freedom, equality, and justice for all. It was long and away, ever since we had buried ourselves alive in the Middle East, that joining the military did not directly mean we would die for our country.

We would die, we would kill, for what our country wanted us to die for: land, peace, oil, politics.

Once, long ago, I like to suspect that riots and protests would break out with these motives hidden under service to my country. But there was none now if only for the fact we did not hide it anymore.

We knew what ran through our blood at this point and it sobered us, made us old as Arlington ran out of space and a generation was sacrificed, my generation, to guard Hell forever.

And I knew that it was the heat of this Hell, the Special Region, that made my blood boil as I saw the Capital from the dining hall: alive, with people, living their lives, unknowing of what we brought.

Bannon and Masterson had talked to the Marines, in all seriosity one night. So I heard, the usual war starved Marines had gotten it all out during Italica. All their pomp, all the "Hoorah, Chesty Puller" bullshit gone once they realized that they had to carry those 20,000 bodies, many of them in pieces, to their final funeral pyre. Gone was all the morale from nostalgia, of invading another country on the misguided purpose of retribution, and replaced with it was the realization we were back where we started: in a different world, in a sandbox by any other name, about to try and consolidate what we destroyed all too hastily.

Another realization had been that the Japanese had not lost that feeling, for it had been their first invasion as they were now, after World War Two.

 _"What do you all want to do now, now that you're here?"_ Bannon said as she folded her pair of cards, during that one grim night before I had left for the Capital, apparently.

The answer was the same thing across the board: from one platoon commander, to a rifleman, to a Force Recon member, to a POG, to a medic. They did not want to stay here. America did not have the right. Not again.

We caught ourselves, if only because we had gone down this road again.

The Japanese would not.

There was a saying that America had to relearn as cargo plane after cargo plane came back with coffins of our fallen soldiers: "My country, right or wrong."

The full saying, from a senator from long ago, had been this: "My country, right or wrong, if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right."

America had been set right, finally.

"What are you fighting for?" I said aloud as I rested my chin, my gaze slanted toward a capital an enemy nation.

There had been Imperial guards there, posted in the castle, half thankful, half grating, that they were not deployed with the war effort toward Arnus. They heard the same stories from survivors, what little there were, about the damnation from the mysterious army. Regardless, they had in some way been informed by Pina herself of who Kouji was and where he was from.

Those civilians that went to Arnus, Italica that the Empire wanted to get information on the enemy forces didn't come back. Willingly.

Also there had been Kouji, across from me at that long table, the chair at the end reserved for Pina as we waited for her.

"Fighting?" he asked. "I'm no soldier. I don't fight."

"You can fight for your country in many ways, Kouji-san." I said in return, switching to Japanese and masking our thoughts aloud, in plain sight.

In the back of my head, I knew it was perhaps a bit immoral of me to join, knowing that I wasn't likely to be deployed to the Middle East or Korea: that I cheated service by joining only in name, but here I was, and I knew what I fought for. Peace and sanity in the broad sense.

If it wasn't for the sleeping pills, I knew I'd lose the former of the two myself.

Broad topics, ambiguous declarations. It was what made America's defining documents great. It was would've saved my soul as well.

He mulled over my analysis, his own chin resting on his hands as he adjusted his glasses, sitting across from me, back toward the morning sky.

"Increasing the amount of people who want peace in this Empire is something I am fighting for as of current." The way he talked, the way his dead, yet hot, eyes moved behind his glasses. They spoke to a politician.

A man I wanted to become.

"Peace isn't the right word, I think."

"Oh?" he prodded.

"Pacification… the agenda is still set for this empire to be folded into Japanese territory?"

China had been kicking and screaming with words and its military force about wanting access into the Gate. It was all the same reason for why the Empire expanded, on why Japan had expanded during World War Two: resources.

China had mouths to feed, and what terraforming they had been doing on their barren west hadn't been able to keep up as the giant nation was sickly and ill to the point of pity. The nation was a great power undoubtedly, but beneath the skin it was dying, as all nations which expanded too fast had often did.

To see the reports of such a world, rich with resources and untapped just, in theory, a hundred miles or so offshore on Japan, and for them to not share, it was tantamount to not only stealing candy from a baby, but denying it outright.

"In the interim-"

"So yes." In the end.

Kouji and I hadn't really talked much, only past the initial introductions we hadn't done much but walk together as I provided some sort of oversight to the first dealings behind the scenes.

He had, in private of course in those dealings, had spouted the usual chest pumping grandeur that had come with being Japanese to these people: Japanese goods and craftsmanship carried along with us in those meetings to show off such "modern" advances versus the Empire's own.

I on the other hand had barely mentioned America, if not at all.

He licked his teeth as he kept his mouth open, mid-sentence, analyzing me as I brought my arms forward and rested them on the table. I knew better. He continued on without addressing me.

"In the interim, a transitional government of doves is going to be preferable for a government of those who would actively resist us."

"Who says the Doves wouldn't resist when Japan comes and establishes the authority?"

"But we do have authority already." The declaration had scared me. Chilled me to my bones. "By just being Japanese, by having our blood spilled by this Empire, by being the modern people that we are, we have every right. It would be counterproductive to disassemble this Empire whole, to destroy what will eventually be ours, in the end."

"Rather brash to say that, outright." I had stated coldly.

"We aren't lying to ourselves, Captain Emerson. As America had the World Trade Center to start off their War on Terror, we have had our own at Ginza. Just as America has made its mark on the Middle East for all time, we will eventually have our own here."

"A gross dramatization of America's actions, Kouji." I warned.

"You see, I was sent as the envoy from the foreign ministry because I always got to the point, and unlike American involvement in the Middle East, we will skip the two decades of blood and tears: the fate of all empires and bring a new age of peace and prosperity to the Special Region."

"After getting rid of the old age, of course."

"Arnus is our Kurdistan, and using that as a basis for the establishment of Japanese ideals throughout this land will come from there."

Pause, a silence, a stressed few seconds as I remember my history.

"Do you know why, after three decades, how we finally tamed the Middle East, Mister Suguwara?"

"Because the people wanted it, yes?"

I shook my head. "Because, after so long in that hell hole, we killed everyone who thought otherwise. Not because we wanted to, but because it was what we were forced to do with the path we chose. The fact that the people wanted it was because they were only ones left. They and us… we both lost a generation for a region of a planet that's been blasted and glassed to nothing." There was aggression in my tone, time tested wars and theories boiling in my throat that made it a growl. "You intend to inherent an entire world of people. To sacrifice only a generation of Japanese would be the best outcome."

"Well, our transitional government would be one that would eventually establish a government of democracy, Captain Emerson. I'm sure peace will underline this all."

"Democratic Peace?" I asked, recognizing the theory.

"We do not intend to establish a democracy in this region because it is inherently right," he confirmed. "We intend to establish a democracy because people who are willing to believe in democracy are more like to get along in fundamental morals."

Democracy wasn't a form of government to us empires, former, conceptual, or not. It was a tool. Jefferson would probably be rolling in his grave to see it used like this.

There was so much I could say, on how The Corridor seemed happy enough with just co-existing with us, on how a change to Democracy, no matter how capable this Empire was in sustaining it as we knew it, would fall apart due to the transition and enforcement. Most of all: on Japan assuming the authority to enforce this on a people.

Not even with a UN mandate…

As if the UN had any say in this new world.

As if I did.

A pair of grand doors leading from this dining hall to Pina's living wing of the mansion had opened slowly, and I habitually rose from the table. Kouji had kept his butt down as the princess in formal attire had walked in with her procession of maids, guards, and JSDF escorts in tow.

White robes, gold bracelets, her hair elegantly done in something of a half bun, half fan, chains of rose jewels and gold as well.

Shame she would have to do it all over again after training.

"As beautiful as ever, princess." Kouji had said in her seat as I raised into a salute. Pierce had sent down communicae across the ranks that royals were supposed to be saluted, regardless of anything.

Pina had alone learned to salute me down as she nodded at Kouji, taking her place at her seat as I received and sat back down, actually ready for a breakfast of baby tomatoes, eggs, cheese, and loaves of seasoned bread.

No meat, but I could do with the MREs I had brought over with the "American" goods that I was expected to bring as well. Besides, this was all cooked well.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Captain Emerson, Mister Suguwara." she said simply as we all sat. "Just had to make sure some of the documents were all flattened out."

Kouji had nodded thoughtfully after he had said grace. Personally I hadn't been into the idea of God. Even after I met Rory and, technically, assumed her as my patron saint by my fake middle name.

America's feeling of agnosticism had come with the wars we fought: on how a God so cruel could leave us with a scarred Earth and wars so bloody for so long. Not to say Religion itself had declined, but rather, those who were never really particular about a God had seen a world beyond his help, and chose their path. Nihilism, by any other name.

I was one of those many non-believers. Especially now, after what I had seen.

My father had been a former Muslim, impacted deeply by the loss of the Middle East, of Mecca, the Noble Sanctuary, the Kaaba, and having since renounced his faith. My mother, though I was baptized, had been something of those Christians who had believed it only for tradition: of church on Christmas Sundays but not much else.

It was a sorry state that the world had seen its religions falter under the extremism of both war, weather, and the world at large. Spiritually, it had made us all numb.

Rory, however, had been a beacon of hope for those who wanted to still believe in something bigger than us.

And to think religious extremism's threat to world peace disappeared from our world underneath the sands of time and bodies.

In a time where mankind had needed God, we had either accepted a reality without them, or we had continued to desperately look for one.

Regardless, I knew I had chosen Hell a long time ago.

I made the mistake of going to bed without the pills a few days ago, what I saw in my mind had spurred me awake faster than Cam had on that fateful day.

I suppose I could've been saved yet; that it could've been worse, and that I had been having nightmares ever since I turned into a man. However living through the meat grinder of Italica again and again it was…

I toyed with a crumble of bread as I looked up and saw Pina and Kouji continuing to say grace, without me. Some people never prayed to God unless they were in a lot of trouble. I suppose that day would come, sooner than later.

* * *

They told him that the only way Cicero was to be bribed was to offer his nephew: a POW from the Ginza Incident.

Cicero La Maltose had been, as Emerson had found out, a founding member (or at least his name was) of the Empire. One of the War Hawks too with considerable sway of the Imperial Senate.

Even in this world, there had been two types of people who favored two options: Peace and War.

It was always a good feeling, at least, to those who weren't fighting, to go to war. After all. War was a deceleration of hostilities: something called for if needed. Much like popping a zit, breaking a window to get to the fire axe, or beating in the face of someone who deserved it.

However, perhaps, more gratifying a feeling was tempering down and not going to war and declaring hostilities out right: wherein words and crafted messages can save the lives of thousands all by making understandings clear.

That went against everything the Rangers knew, however. Emerson especially from the man who trained him.

And here he was a mentor himself, as he reviewed mentally the take away from breakfast, wrapping his palms with tape.

Cicero had been, as described by Pina, negotiable, and they'd always had an amiable relationship as far as she could tell. In short: he could be persuaded and spare them the trouble of pitching the case for peace themselves across all those war mongering senators.

Something akin to the American House Majority Leader making a decision with a rallying cry that, although it might've gone against the broad wishes of the majority, they followed them anyway.

It would've been a decisive blow for peace, or, for the preemptive occupation of the Japanese, but either way whatever would've come to fruition would've been kicked off a party at the House of Cicero during a dinner party next week.

Emerson, Suguwara, and Pina were expected to attend and make their mark.

If Emerson was being honest to himself, both war and peace seemed a rather fanciful idea to the Imperials, looking from his perspective: both wanted, in the end, for the Special Task Force to go back home. But things would never be the same if they did.

Italica, Arnus, the people between them, they'd become intertwined in a system made by the Japanese: providing the essentials for those people they never knew they had until they came. To take the Japanese away, would be taking away their new lives under them.

It was true, what Emerson said, about Iraq and Iran. Two different cases: In one case, the children threw flowers, the other, rocks. The difference between loving the invaders and actively resisting is made by a generation gap that the Japanese would have to wait several decades for here. Iran had American, Western ideals seep into its blood in the early twenty first century, and thus when the Americans leading their Coalition of the Damned came, they were welcome. More so than they were in Iraq for the first thirty something years.

To have an American ideal come into your bones, your soul, your skin, was both a curse, and a blessing, depending on who you asked. For Japan, it was both. American military might and capitalism, western ideals, forced upon them as a broken nation nearly a hundred years ago had made them into one of the leading Pacific, and even international, powers today: their advancements and contributions to the entirety of the human race to not be understated. However, many Japanese had to ask, as generations came and gone from World War Two, how much of those accomplishments were our own? How much was it simply the Americans pulling their strings on us?

Needless to say Japan's stance in the Special Region was something of a rebellion against America: on how they didn't listen to the nation who had been there before, perhaps not literally, but conceptually, and paid for it.

At least, Emerson thought as he came out to the training floor with a tank top and in his sweatpants, he could teach another people how to fight, if only to pass the time.

A young woman named Hamilton, one of the Rose Order's most defiant members, and one of the most loyal to Pina, had criticized on how much a warrior Emerson had been alone. Hitman had hardly ever fought alone, that just wasn't standard operating procedure, but Emerson took offense enough to it that he had approached Hamilton unkindly, and asked for her to back up her words.

"Let her use her sword." he said to Pina as she had defensively tried to get Hamilton to stand down, her blue eyes and blonde locks on fire with the aggressiveness of someone who had a bone to pick with the Americans and the Japanese.

He himself had cast down his Winchester to the ground in its holster as Hamilton confronted him in one of the central rooms, holding a marble staircase. The maids and the guards all backed up as the Rose Order and the Japanese all saw what a Ranger, and to those who didn't know, a dark elf, could do with only his hands.

"The first thing you do in the Imperial Capital is pick a fight, Kay Ro Bronxon?" As was what the Japanese envoy had said; on how the mansion's staff had learned the name of the black elf going one on one with one of the Rose Order's most gifted swordsmen with nothing save a stance that some of the Imperials found funny:

It was, inherently, a predatorily oriented one, one that had him bend his form down and hunch his back, keeping himself slightly slanted with both his hands up and curled like claws, almost.

"What kind of magic stance is that?" Hamilton had sneered at him as several of the Rose Order had again surrounded him. Pina had neglected to tell some about who he really was, and she could not be seen speaking for him, at least now.

"It's not magic." she sputtered out fast. "He is a rare dark elf from beyond the farthest lands. His only art, is the art of combat, of which he is a master like no other."

Some of the Marines had teased him and his Rangers for knowing this outright, for practicing it so judiciously, as if they thought they were really hot shit spec ops forces, but some of the Marines, knowing they'd be fighting in close quarters, given the enemy, had taken after the Rangers and the special forces in the build up to Operation Odyssey Ultimatum.

Close Quarters Combat, as observed in combat during the Israeli civil conflicts and riots in the last decade and perfected by North Korean commandos.

CQC.

Or as Emerson knew it in his youth: street fighting.

The violence of action was what dictated it, and as Hamilton had taken a prodding lunge at Emerson, the man had used his height to his advantage, stepping back, the height of the sword relative to his foot reach good enough for him to raise it up as, Hamilton peaking her lunge.

She pulled back, or at least, she tried as Emerson's boot had come down on the blunt side of the sword, dragging both her grip down with the blade as it hit the floor with a metallic rattle. Down to the level of Emerson's knee she had again tried to pull back and slice up, however Emerson's feign for a thrash had sent her off her grip, and the sword trapped under his hilt as Hamilton desperately vied for distance.

A flick of his feet later and the sword was sent out of reach, the tiles being marked up by metal, the onlookers cringing as they saw a knight disarmed of her weapon.

"What kind of soldier are you, without a weapon?" Emerson had asked in return as she drew a backup knife from her armored cuffs. "How about without your comrades? How long have you trained?"

She saw cold green eyes as an answer came from her mouth, backhanding a knife as the man approached in a slow, petty pace in that same stance: like a mantis, almost. "Seven years."

"More than me. What is your name?" he asked.

"Hamilton Uno Ror." she answered.

" _ **Your name. The time you've trained. Your upbringings**_. Does it seems like it matters, facing me?" His shadow came to her first as a man, judging her, had been within striking distance.

She once again slashed out, but the knife never found its swipe as a fist had met the grip holding the knife first, a punch to her own grasp sending her first back as the man seemed to teleport to within inches of her.

One of his forearms had gone to her throat and pressed down as a foot had kicked her own legs in and swiped across, sending her down in a crash that the Rose Order had seen, had felt, before at Italica. They all looked amongst each other as they saw that technique repeated, and started wondering who this elf really was.

That is when an old man, grey in his hair and in his name, had gotten the dark elf off of one of his students, and looked him up and down.

"Do you feel proud? For taking on a nineteen year old and winning?" This was the Rose Order's mentor, steel on his tongue as he held a man responsible for fighting, Pina looking on horrified with the Japanese envoy.

"A stab, a slash, a kill from a nineteen year old, is still a kill. If they are soldiers, knights, they must know this."

Perhaps this was revenge, in Emerson's mind, for the draft in the US that took so many his age away while he was saved by a college deferment. Eighteen year olds drafted, and died, for a Middle East so far away. They were as much as a soldier as he was now.

And so that is why he had judged these women so fiercely. It was why any of the modern soldiers had.

"Is that you justify it, from all your hundreds of years alive?" the old man had presumed.

Emerson felt a hundred, but that simply wasn't the case. But he rolled with the lie for now, and sooner, rather than later, Pina had interjected and said he was her teacher now.

And so teach he did. Not only her, but her Order, in the finer points of modern punching and shoving.

They had brought out the mirrors from all around the manor to be propped up against the wall, and despite how distorted some of them were, they had sufficed as a reflective mirror for all of the participants in Emerson's lessons to observe themselves with.

Pina had grimaced as she walked over to Emerson, looking at the mirrors.

"Even the little things…" she started as she had been brought down to her own slacks, the muscles she had developed over all those years evident. "I used to think the mirrors I owned were the best, made by elven craftsmen… but only when I saw myself in mirrors in your world, did I see my true self."

Emerson had grunted as he tightened his handwraps up. "Some could say the opposite, in my army, princess."

"The mirrors only show what you are on the outside, princess. What you are on the inside, you find out in war." he explained tiredly.

"Which is why I am so eager to actually go to war…" she breathed softly, almost under her breath, but before she had clasped her mouth with her hands. "Not against you of course!"

The man had smiled as he shook his head. "Be careful what you wish for, princess."

"In speaking of that," they walked over to the formed rows of guards and the Rose Order, all stripped down to skinnies and training clothes. No discrimination among the ranks.

Pina herself had often forgotten to write down in her notes, the long winded and all-encompassing histories of the world apart, that Emerson's and Itami's army had no discrimination between man and woman. That they were both equal.

Here he had proved he believed it as well.

"Are you sure you want to go out by yourself, today?"

Emerson cricked his neck as he didn't make a second guess at it. "I'm not a man to be cooped up inside of a penthouse, princess. I showed you a city on the other side, at least return the favor, would ya?"

"Fair enough." she relented.

So they all stood at attention, before a dark elf, and the princess, like soldiers he might've been proud to serve beside one day. But what he was teaching them was only an aspect of it all. He had hoped they were good people, before they were good soldiers, but he was not one to teach basic human principles.

Not when he was teaching them how to kill. They hadn't been doing these lessons long, and many would bow out after the first few drills, but they kept coming back, bruises and all. They deserved an explanation as Emerson had cleared his voice and spoke, not as a dark elf master in combat, but rather a captain.

" _ **Aten-tion**_!" the mirrors to his back had vibrated at his tone. They all snapped straight.

* * *

 _I teach you what I teach, not for the intent purposes of making you fight how I fight._

 _I teach you the way I move so you can develop the mindset which I use to do so._

 _For me. For the soldiers I call my brothers and sisters in arms. We do not react. We do not respond. We simply do, regardless of what the fuck the enemy does. If we want something done, and more often than not, done to them, we will do so come hell or highwater. No matter how the try to fight back, we will strip them bare, and take their breath away with our very own hands._

 _ **Honor is subjective. Honor is a liability**_ _, and if we need to spit in the eyes of the enemy so that we may tear into his heart and win the day, we will. You do, what you will need to do, to be the last one standing at the end of the day._ _ **The only unfair fight is the one you lose, and there are fates worse than death.**_

 _So when you are put in a fair fight against me, make it unfair as soon as you can, because I will show you no quarter. Every day you come here, and you fight me, and you lose, but yet you still come back for the chance of sending me to the floor._

 _That is good, and that hate, boiling inside you,_ _ **makes us more and more similar every day**_ _._

 _Let's get to it._

* * *

Grey Co Aldo, had been the name of their mentor he being one of the few men able to actually take me down in any fashion. Bozes had been another, however she had the proud claim that she had already scarred me. Those lines across my cheeks had been a battle scar if any.

I recognized him now. He and Major Sevson had been quick to be made friends, and the two had been alike in many ways. They both fought in wars, before any of our times, really. For Sevson and Pierce, it had been Korea. For Grey, it had been the eastern expansion wars against the warrior bunnies.

"Who was your mentor? The one who taught you the art of battle?" Pina had finally asked as she saw Grey looking from the sidelines, the majority having taken off already after either giving up or having gotten a leg up on me. Mostly the former.

She had asked me after I had deflected a kick from her with two clasped hands, sending it back to the ground and causing her to stumble back as she assumed, by habit, that same predatory stance I had nailed into those who wanted to learn.

I had looked at the scar in my hand from a Ginza battlefield so long ago. Hadn't been able to feel much on that palm for a while, but the scar remained, like some ugly silhouette of time gone by.

Major Martin Walker was something like a scar, I had figured.

"A very angry man, princess, a very angry man."

Angry had often been a subjective emotion, depending on the scenario, but in training, I suppose it counted. And yes, even considering it was Ranger training.

Major Walker had been the main drill sergeant, the main overseer of my Ranger training. In my wave of a two hundred strong cohort: men who had followed me from West Point, teenagers right out of high school, veterans and green horns alike, only a dozen had made it.

It wasn't hard to see why: of how he had starved us, drowned us, played some distorted, scratchy version of the national anthem over a loudspeaker as we slept, called us nothing more than an idea, stripped us of who we are and dehumanized us. He made us want to kill him and when he saw that emotion in our eyes, he had stopped, told us to hold onto that visceral emotion of hatred, and left us with a throbbing phantom pain of which we could call upon any time to kill, to do as Rangers do and lead the way.

Major Walker however, saw this very early on in my eyes apparently.

I was his favorite.

I didn't find out much from Walker from his half bent jaw, scars along his arms and back that had spoken to sand being ripped across flesh and burns that spoke to an unsung war waged. I knew he had seen hell.

It was the same aura that I carried around today.

I asked Godfather what was his deal, in the end, on why such a ferocious man still in his steed was kept in the States to train us. He knew his story, and it had made the man suck in his teeth and discuss it with me in a bar during one late night in Tokyo a long time ago. It was a story Godfather needed a drink to tell, and to reveal.

When Dubai was swallowed whole at the beginning of the 2020s and a Colonel John Konrad's 33rd Battalion had disappeared trying to evacuate the city, the initial recon force to ascertain their situation had been a then Captain Walker's Delta Force team.

Their original mission was to just simply break the dust storm wall, find survivors, and then exfiltrate out to confirm survivors to a command.

They found survivors, that much Godfather had confirmed, but then Walker had found hell in a land cut off from the world, cut off from sanity, and forced to do as he did to survive.

That's all Colonel Andrade told me, in the end, but I knew that Walker had been part of the reason why the events in Dubai had been buried underneath classified documents until 2079.

I asked about how many survivors there were in Dubai when regular forces broke through and finally swept through Dubai one last time before living civilization left the dead city. All Godfather told me as he called it in for the night was this: "One too many."

That was the nature of the man who trained me: a man who had gone to hell and came back and wasn't that happy about it. He didn't even seem human to me at times, how he disregarded us as humans entirely, having thrown his own humanity away in the name of building us up as killing machines and soldiers.

To kill as he did.

That scared me, back then, but I relied on his advice as I found myself in a hell of my own, perhaps.

I had to wonder how many more of me he had trained ever since I graduated. I wonder how Pina would understand him, how Bozes would if she knew what secrets Walker held in his forever marred head.

I sure as hell didn't.

"An angry man?" Pina had asked as we reassumed stances for another go.

"Someone who came back from the Underworld, princess, and brought some of it back in his heart."

We reassumed her stances as we squared up, some bruising on her legs evident from the throws of this particular style of hand to hand fighting.

I had to keep telling myself me and her won't so different. Half out of remembering Kurokawa's words. The other half of what conclusions I could draw between her and I, personally. How fast we had wanted to become soldiers.

Though it wouldn't be the most flattering thing to say, I was a smart guy. Valedictorian my Senior year. Syracuse: accelerated bachelors degree before being allowed to go to West Point. West Point was also an accelerated program, but only being because the Korean War had been ongoing and new officers needed to be out there, and as I had predicted the war had been more or less over by the time I had graduated for the third time in my life.

What that meant in short was that, at twenty five, I had accomplished all that Itami had plus spades more, and I had done it in almost a decade less.

I always wanted to break the bonds that held me down as soon as I could, whether that had meant location, standing, or otherwise.

Perhaps I moved too fast however, all things considered.

Whatever that had meant I had used it to literally take my first aggressive step toward Pina, however she had shuffled back quickly, double forward as I stopped and lashing out with a punch.

The hand of hers had been deflected by my forearm in the hit, pushing her back with a shove on her shoulders.

Unlike these last few days she hadn't stumbled back onto her ass, and she was getting used to getting manhandled. She had been preforming admirably against her fellow training partners, her control of her enemy's movements, manipulating the flow of their punches and ebbs, it had been… above average to my indications.

The feign, the way she had been able to move her feet in a flash. As was the benefit of being small.

She used that same movement to push toward me and duck right underneath one of my lashes out, my right arm swung out and leaving my chest exposed as she had put a jab into my side, her elbow shoving me sideways as she forced me to reorientate toward a direction she was no longer at.

That was the trick, admittedly, to me: getting behind me I suppose.

She knew it as I felt two hands wrap around my sides and try to throw me over. She had the strength, god knows she did, but I had fell into it as let my weight go and fell back with her, to her surprise.

The fall came quick as I braced my back for the hit against the floor, she yelping and rolling away as she fell as well.

She had been faster to get up as I fanned my legs out, using the momentum to put myself on my feet as she had put some distance between me and herself.

Enough for us to take a breath.

Enough for me to see an opening and rush toward her, her two hands taking my punching fist and holding it up as she collapsed a leg and suddenly took a knee.

I was silent. This wasn't any real exertion on my part, I knew what combat really was, and this hadn't been against a nineteen year old girl who had been trying. Her hands quaked as I grinded my fist down.

She swept my legs at the last minute, before the break, I compromising my own bearings as I thought I could deliver all the way through. With all my bearing down the top of my weight had shifted way too much, my legs going and sending me down to the ground, right into her knee.

I saw stars, heard the ringing in my ears, as I slipped and hit her cap: dead on my forehead.

What she had done instead of letting me just fall however was go for my collar and pulled oppositely of the push at my legs, sending me off balance and, with the inertia she had gained, she threw me over her back in a maddening yell.

My back had hit the sand floor hard: hard enough to knock the winds out of me and suddenly having a pen just over my jugular as Pina had mounted my chest, fire, battle, and victory in her eyes as she caught herself: blinking, unsure of what had just happened that led me to be finally thrown on the floor at her mercy in a way.

If Doc's pen had been a knife…

"Good." had been my only response as Pina uneasily had gotten off me and stared at the pen in her hand.

In the corner, Grey had grinned, and my teacher had applauded me in my mind.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 25**_

 _ **The Special Region – The Imperial Capital, Akusho**_

* * *

I had known when someone was tailing me without much thought to it. It was a skill I hadn't learned in the military outright, but from in the Bronx.

Those old days of concrete curbs, crowds, and air pollution I looked upon fondly, if not wearily. New York City had given me the place to grow up into who I was today, and here I was walking like I had been on Canal Street in another ghetto, a world away from home.

Pina's meddling no doubt, having people tail me as her carriage had stopped on the way from her and Kouji's destination that day in a market place: Apparently her babysitting of me would go further. To be fair, if she had done the same thing when she was in Tokyo, I would've been just as panicked and concerned, but then again, I was a big boy enough to put an elven cloak over me, my leather holster hidden against my leg and robes, and to wander through the crowded streets of a common part of the Imperial Capital.

Wasn't my first time in crowds like these, the Corridor had quite a population by the time we returned.

A Navy JSOC Lieutenant Colonel and his task force of Navy Seabees had taken charge of the logistics operations back and forth from Tokyo and Arnus in terms of the American hardware and H&S. With him, sans Coast Guard, America's military in full had been represented in the Special Region. Even if we were still outnumbered by the JSDF by all records.

Sure, the products being sold in the Post Exchanges had been Japanese, but the new Japanese bases and the infrastructure were all built by American steel and plans.

We were the only country on Earth, at that point, to have the experience we had putting up FOBs and installations in foreign lands, so far from home.

Say what you want about America's failures abroad, but our designs of metal and technology were always true. Perhaps that was something the Japanese had forgotten as (Bannon's and Masterson's letters to me had written out as such) they were trying to win the hearts and minds of the people first.

The concept of a "50% off sale" had been introduced to these people back at Arnus and Italica as we knew it in our absence; horrifyingly, yet amusingly.

Hearts and minds can be both won and bought. Yet some people can forget which is which.

In Afghanistan and Iraq, America had built entire power stations, roads, police bases, and provided the funds needed to maintain them for the local government and people and yet that did not stop Afghani Police or Iraqi soldiers from shooting us in the back. Nor did it stop children lighting American flags on fire as they used it to disgrace American corpses.

To imagine a Japanese flag being used in the same manner… it made me sick to my stomach.

Even moreso from the stench of this particular corridor I had been pushing my way down in this slum that had been known as "Akusho".

Pina's people wouldn't follow me here.

I had been no stranger to ghettos, of how people lived. I had seen the pictures from the Middle East: Dubai, Kandahar, Fallujah. I had lived in New York City before the sweeping renovations sucked the city's blood out and made it new again. However, most relevant, I had walked through Pyongyang and saw what had become of the humanitarian disaster of Unified Korea integrating the former North Korean populace into the new world.

It was a calamity.

Of families living no better than they had underneath the Kims: children combing through animal shit in the hopes of finding a kernel of corn, women sold out to provide, the once empty cities of North Korea made only for looks, becoming mega slums.

At least the excuse here, as I had brushed past a walking tiger and into the shadow of an alleyway to catch my breath, was that these were still ancient times.

It was no different to me at this point than just another crowd, in another city.

Albeit this melting point was not only for humans:

A tail, and I had known what a tail distinctly felt like at this point, had brushed into my leg as I looked out as the crowds passed by me in the dark. I looked into the alleyway.

"Charmed." I said, as I saw what I did.

Whatever God here had been in charge of creation in this world was a funny individual if giving these supposedly alien beasts human attributes was normal.

Not to say I expected anything more or less. I had expected nothing and I was still surprised as the concept of race for me was thrown out the window and replaced with species in my musings as of late.

Two figures: lizards in head, skin, tail, and appendages. Not in body however, mostly, as far as I could tell. They had hardly been wearing much of anything for the express purpose of making people notice.

Behind them: resting or blacked out bums sleeping in trash and the leftovers of the chop shop I had taken cover next to.

One male, one female. Adult, hopefully.

They both flicked pointed tongues at me, but not out of malice. I knew how reptiles did their thing with tongues.

"Looking for ssssssomeone dear?" the female one said, tipping herself a bit over to flaunt a few of her more feminine features.

"Perhapsssss me?" the male had said as he had looped his two clawed hands around his already rather loose belt.

Prostitutes.

"I'm new in town. Just looking around." I said simply as I took off my hood, the fabric catching on my ears. Whatever lizards they were based on, they had been using their forked tongues to smell me over. Perhaps not intentionally, but just by habit. Greenish skin, and if the Star Trek motif was still being used, these had looked something like petit Gorn. Petit meaning they were my size.

It was by that same inclination of habit that I had stopped myself from holding out my hand to shake.

"Offering your services, are you?" I asked with the lingua franca. I had been surprised myself at how easy I had taken on the language, but I didn't complain.

They ignored my questions as they flanked my sides, scales glistening. Past all the rather rudimentary features they showed off in their trade, ontop of that had been rags, the clothes they had had been torn, and their scales unclean: caked on with dirt and oil. They did not live well.

"Dark elf?" the male asked.

"Smells human." the female said.

"I grew up with them. Never spent much time around my own kind." I lied, admitted. They backed off as they saw Imperial royalty grade leather and robes underneath my cloak. "Think you can help me?"

The two snakes had looked at each other expectantly, and then at me. "I'll make it worth your while." I drew a small bag of denarii. That had gotten my attention further more than the words. If they had eyebrows, they raised them and waved at me hurriedly.

"Put that away, darkie." the male had said, my own eyebrows raising up as the pouch of coins went back underneath my cloak.

"Excuse me? What did you call me?"

"Darkie. It's what we call you dark elvessssssss around here."

Unconsciously I had glared as I shook my head in disapproval. "Call me by my name then."

"Which issssssss what?" the female asked.

"Kay. Kay Ro Bronxon. What're yours?"

"Sssssseyton." the male said.

"Sssssamnu." as went the female.

"Right. How do you think showing me about town for a day?"

* * *

Seyton and Samnu, and I had to make sure I was pronouncing Seyton right, me forgetting that the father of lies didn't exist in this world and thus that name was normal, they had been lizard humanoids from the Western Desert.

Which had meant they had been a thousand kilometers and more from home, having found themselves down on their luck selling themselves as a brother and sister pair in the Imperial Capital's slums.

They were alright, as far as I could tell.

In my tenure here thus far, I had to keep reminding myself that walking and talking humanoid animals was perfectly normal, and in turn they would treat me no different for not being used to it, as per my cover. Maybe Kurata, Itami's driver, he would've been a bit more… expedient in the fact that these beings existed, as per his tastes, but I had put my foot down regarding that.

As good as a soldier Harris was, as hard as he had fucked during his off time, and as much as I tried to not get involved in his personal life, he had two duties I recognized: to his wife and family, and to his duty.

The fact that I had to confront that after Hakone had made me sour and bringing in RCT3 and Hitman for a little sit down of my PowerPoints regarding fraternization with the locals.

Still, if my concept of masculinity was correct, I couldn't stop all such attempts: only the ones from the people I knew. A reality of being a soldier, of being an army deployed to a land we would not remain forever. At least, in theory, that is what it sounded like.

In battle, on the brink of war and conflict, minds little have been turned to sex and the perversions of sins other than killing. I sure as hell hadn't thought too much about it. Not with what I was doing now.

Samnu and Seyton had been, in the cursory glances from bystanders that lasted seconds too long, well-bred to my guesses, and fully victim to anyone who wanted to abuse them in exchange for money. Foreign troops included, in the eventuality.

They were more than just playthings, that I had figured out by their helpfulness to me alone as we dashed on top of shackled rooftops of an Imperial Capital.

They taught me how to walk as they did, what exactly was in the meat that some markets were selling, how much they had gone for personally, rumors and whsiperings as befit street people like them, and how people lived in the shadow of an empire as serfs and slaves.

Underneath the leather wraps of my feet had been sneakers, and they gave me grip enough to fling myself from the top of a whorehouse onto something of a textile shop with little trouble, Seyton and Samnu waiting expectantly, impressed.

"Your feet are light," Seyton had sorely admitted. "You mussssssst be a dark elf."

I hauled myself over the edge as onlookers below barely gave me a glance, even squatters on the roof hardly recognizing us as they went on with their meager existences of rags and scraps underneath the shadow of the Imperial Capital.

It helped as we hopped over rooftops that I wasn't carrying any gear that I was used to: whenever I had put off the several dozen pounds I hauled around in deployment I felt like I could fly. And to be fair, I did as we ran along the skyline.

The view from above, as in combat, had been advantageous. So I saw the city flow beneath me like an eternal river: from the ghettos to the markets to the more rural areas that this giant Capital had afforded its residents. I saw people live their lives, not from the lens of a UAV or through the words of a recon report, but with my own eyes.

And still, I was on the outside, looking in.

I was not a dark elf, nor an Imperial, and the tour they were giving was one really of tourism: of getting out on the town.

Dust, smoke, and battle had been in my lungs enough for me to pant harder than the two reptiles, but even they had joined me as I sat back down on that ledge I climbed over, looking down to the street as the crowds continued in this common part of the Capital.

"I grew up in something of an urban jungle. Lots of buildings to cross." I commentated as I drawn from a water pouch.

"Urban?" Samnu asked, her tail flicking around behind her.

"Basically this." I answered as I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. Well, perhaps without the rampant recruiting for the Imperial Army, the war bond drives, seedy characters selling seedy products everywhere, and the fact we all dressed like Romans.

Still, who was I to judge?

They showed me the town, the people, where the criminal thugs and lords lived in between going to watering holes and public baths, the trading posts in and out of the city, and where they often looked for customers during the day.

The way they talked to me, it was casual, even if they had noted the seal of the Royal family on some of my clothes.

The way we traveled was by rooftop. Less traffic, they said. Even if that had meant a broken shackle or two on the roof, the two reptiles waving hello at acquaintances who had squatted on those roofs. To me it was nostalgic, and I fell back on old habits and motions as I jumped gaps and tiles on the Imperial Capital.

"Must be good." Samnu started as she had ran her claws and picked a dirty fang. "Life on top of the hills." she grinded through her teeth.

"I'm only a visitor." I responded as I looked up at an afternoon sky, as blue as it ever could be.

"People like you usually are. Those acting on behalf of royals, who live the royal life." she continued.

"I'm a visitor. But not in that sense, Samnu. I'm only wearing these clothes because I am currently in the service of Emperor Molt's fifth child."

"How easy is it to become a servant to royalty? It must be a rather comfortable job, isn't it?" she kept on pressing. I gave them the money first, I knew that's how it should go if they really were sincere souls, but either way I had more in reserve. She shook her head in disbelief. "At least you darkies look human…"

I didn't hold much resentment against that phrase, given who was saying it. God knows I had been called nigger more than my fair share of times, but I let it slide to these people, if only because they didn't know any better.

Seyton rubbed his sister's back reassuringly, his breathing raspy, but normal, given his species, looking over to me with yellow eyes that I couldn't decipher, save for the emotion of tiredness. Not of the body, but more of the mind. "We came here, from our home, to find work as maybe advisors or servants to the royal families. We figured it would be a way to make our lives comfortable eventually… the Empire had, back then, just quelled the warrior bunnies in the east. We figured we would be next."

This empire was an empire without hesitation: imperialism alive in its purist form here. Territory expansion, enslaving of races, conscription of people, the gutting of land that was not inherently their own… Pina wouldn't tell me about these details, nor would she tell Kouji, but we knew from what little hints we heard on the mouths at Italica, and even in the capital.

Her notes showed us our weaknesses, as was, in some way, our intention regarding our day at the library weeks ago, but with that she crafted our experience in the capital.

In truth it reminded me a bit too much of North Korea's public stunts, of carefully crafted tours. But I couldn't blame her. America had killed itself many times over in the name of dealing with what made her empire great, and as it was.

It was for that reason that all of the servants and maids had made a point to tell me they were voluntarily employed: not slaves.

Even if they were, they were ordered to not tell me or Kouji.

Pina had thought our opinion of the Empire hadn't been high, broadly, but our opinion was of no matter. If it was happening, we would do something about it in time.

The best she could do was just suck up to the fact her empire did have slaves. If not, we would do it the hard way.

I asked if these two were slaves, earnestly, but they shook their heads. _"Not yet."_ Seyton told me.

That is when he had showed me a market back in Akusho, once again from a rooftop, a market for buying and selling people. I myself had used to think of the images of human beings of skin color in chains and shackles, stripped naked on a platform and bid on, fanciful, but alas, true.

Seeing was believing however, and here for the first time in my life had I seen slavery as it once was, in true form.

Men and women and children, of all races, of all species, in cages, shackles, marks of whips and burn marks on their forms as they stood obediently by chain in front of people selling, buying, and owning them underneath the hot sun and on the hot stones of a market.

Much like a lot of the Imperial Capital, even in wartime, business had gone on as usual. Some hadn't even realized there was a war. And of all that normalcy, and all that business, a normal business had been slavery.

The amount of money I had on my for had been enough to buy a handful of people, and that disgusted me that I had, for the first time in my life, put the worth of a human life with money.

For the first time I had considered drawing my rifle from its leather sheath as I saw a much older man touch a barely teenage girl, naked as the day she was born, and evaluate her for whatever service he needed her for. And she looked up at me, and I looked down on her, and I saw judgement in her eye: of why I did not do anything.

I turned away much to the surprise of the two lizards before I lost my mind.

My cigar hadn't been here with me as I sat on the edge of that unknown world with the two convenient tour guides of mine.

"I'm… not used to this kind of life. Honestly."

"How… arrogant of you to sssssssay that, living in the lap of luxury."

"I'm a soldier. Not a royal."

"An Imperial ssssssssoldier?"

"Worse." I didn't know why I said that, didn't know why it had been my first answer to an implied question, but I knew what American brought: suffering in the form of justice. And how much I wanted justice at that moment for those people. How much I had reminded of what I wanted to do in the name of Tracey O'Neal.

But I digressed.

It was an all too easy trap to fall into.

These people were different than me. They lived different than me, but still, slavery was without forgiveness in my mind, even across cultures. They would have to come to realize that.

"What my sssssissssster means to sssssay issssss…" Seyton had spoke quietly. "We would trade you your good life for ours, if you are so interested."

I chuckled as I looked back down to the ground and cobblestone roads. "It's not my life to begin with, Seyton… but still. Wanting a good life, you two?"

"One where we don't have to ssssssacrafice assss much assss we do now." he replied solemnly. "You won't find a soul down there who wouldn't want that sssssssame, general wissssssssh. Only differenccccccce between them and ussssssss, mostly, is how far we came to try and get it… might as well be on the good side of the Empire."

I knew what was on their minds: why.

People of good intention, good skills, good humanity and otherwise, they had often been denied what they thought they were due: a good job, a good life, people to love. As was the hope of every immigrant to America all that time ago.

But I was in Rome, or at least, the equivalent. To survive, I had to do as they do… well, maybe not exactly what they had done.

Samnu claimed to be a rather good foreman back in their lands. Seyton, he fabricated instruments of wood with his claws.

In the Capital, their skills had meant jack squat seeing as they were reptiles.

The same story written into those dirty streets: the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of their teeming shore…

"What is it like, where you come from?' Seyton asked, the two reptiles leaning in. I suppose it was fair, they having shown me this Capital they had lived in for the last few years.

Subconsciously I had been marking targets of opportunity. Overlord told me to mark them mentally. The AC-130 that the Air Force had brought over had been waiting on standby for such an engagement.

Couldn't help to imagine what it would be like if the Marines and my Rangers were here, clearing out each and every one of these buildings like it was Baghdad or Fallujah.

Without guns or not, it would've been a blood bath on both sides.

But I was here to make sure that hadn't been necessary… that is when I wasn't studying the place myself.

I leaned my head back and thought of home: the Bronx.

Dirty, alive, air quality bad enough that it made my nose bleed in the middle of the night and had my brother contract asthma. New York City in full had been right below the ass that was 72nd street, so my life had never been quiet growing up, especially not as I grew up: the racial tensions of old wounds being brought to a head during 2019.

The riots had been one of the last things I had ever remembered living through in New York City before I went off to college to become a man, away from the borough of immigrants, not that bad traffic, and economic resurgence.

"It's a city, not that much different than this one really. Still, I don't prefer it."

"Eh?" Samnu had asked.

"Too much sound and fury, too busy. Pretty hard to find some peace and quiet." I had said fast, simply.

The two reptiles tilted their heads at me. "And yet you became a ssssssssoldier?" they said in unison.

"Yeah. I'm not too sure about how that happened." I stood up and stretched as the echoes of the roaring crowds we had been going towards rang out again. That noise alone had made them not hear what I said next: "You two would make good Americans."

"Sssssoldiers ssssuch assss you find a placccceeee in the capital there." Seyton had pointed at the unmistakable form and factor of a stone colosseum "They're doing exhibition battles in the hopes of driving up recruitment in thisss odd war they're waging at Arnusssssss. Thought you knew, assss a ssssssoldier?"

"A soldier's not supposed to know everything about their enemy. That's what keeps war interesting, Seyton."

Also that's what had made war horrible...

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – The Imperial Capital, Akusho – Augusta Amphitheatre**_

* * *

Bread and circuses.

That was the term of the spectacles held in the name of Rome back on Earth, as Emerson remembered it:

To keep a populace in favor of the common leader, they needed to be both entertained and fed. As was the case of modern sporting events, that had been the name of the game for the giant amphitheater constructed in the name of the current head of state.

Emerson had seen it rolling into the capital, and to see a colosseum, almost a copy of that legendary icon in Rome, constructed whole and in use as it was, it had taunted him to see with its great moving red cloth shades and massive crowds looking toward a dusty field of blood and those who dared.

And here he had answered this call as he and his two reptile guides slid in, free admission being a thing. Emerson had been no stranger to such crowds, having worked at Yankee Stadium.

"We don't enjoy these events, in all honesty." Samnu had yelled into my ear over the crowd. "Slight chance we might accidently end up on the field!"

The field in question had already been blood spattered for the greater part of the day: gladiators roaring up the crowds.

Interestingly enough those gladiators had been adorned in the clothing of Imperial Regulars.

They were Imperial Regulars: glistening forms of those who killed for sport, not for country.

"Ever since the Empire lost half of its field army at Italica, they've been recruiting around the clock." Seyton yelled.

"Half?!" Emerson had said in shock as they had made their way up the tiers of seating.

"I heard we've lost almost half a million troops. But then again, that's just me hearing it. Tons of families around the capital are wondering why they aren't hearing from their sons." The sister said as they clambered past a few filled seats: toward this premium viewing box.

The two reptiles had looked at concern at their guidee as he had led them to the entrance of it, a guard defensively standing firm. This was only before Emerson opened his cloak:

It was more convenient for him to have been part of the Rose Order than for Pina to give him something equivalent to a calling card. The emblem over his shoulder buckle had been of that Rose Order.

Honorary member or not, the guard had recognized it.

Especially today.

Pina had neglected to tell Emerson where she and Kouji were going today as they slipped in.

Naturally the senators that were present, the maids and the servants serving grapes and wine as they looked at the dusty battlefield below, hadn't expected a dark elf and two reptilian beasts.

One of the senators recognized me from the peace meetings, his utterance of my name alone letting their apprehensive to me and my two guides down as the crowd roared at a decapitation unseen.

"Kay." the senator said as he took Emerson's hand. "I didn't expect to see you today."

"I've been making friends around town." he thumbed back to the two uncomfortable lizards. "I don't suppose you can take care of them? Me and Pina would awfully appreciate it… perhaps send them to Sadera Hill at the end of the day?"

The man had nodded, and after a reassuring glance from Emerson to lizard, they went along with it as they had plucked from a grape vine more than happily as they were courted away by the other beast servants.

Emerson was going to ask what was going on today in the eyes of the senate, and why today in this area had been so special, but there had been something else that had answered all of that for him as every suddenly got to their feet.

Bannon had told Emerson once during her own Ranger training that all of the recruits were to kneel before their trainers. Without second thought she had admittedly refused, and something of a scar had been made around her neck as the trainer had used her silver cross necklace to grab her and to make her answer why.

She smiled deviously as she said it, proud of herself as she remembered.

 _ **"I kneel only to God, sir."**_

Emerson had remembered her words as the people all around him had taken a knee and bowed before this hulking figure of man that appeared out of the dark: dirty blonde in hair, and elegant in his dressings and robes. He dressed like Pina, he realized, and though he had given her salute, that had only been on a personal basis.

He had no reason to bow before this man even as he had expectantly looked at him.

This great man expected the dark elf to bow.

The black man had thought nothing of it as they shared a gaze.

He had thought nothing of it when a white robed and armored general had smacked him across the face and drew blood to the floor.

He had thought nothing of it as he barked at him to stay down, even when he stood up, this General who was ready to slit his throat.

He had thought nothing of it as Pina appeared from behind this man, wide eyed and panicked.

And he had defiantly thought nothing of it as that great blonde haired man with robes that followed in his wake like purple fog, had spoken to him this:

" _ **Who dares not bow before their emperor?**_ "


	19. 2-1A: Monochrome Apathy

A/N: I read further into the Manga and I got mad. Furious. That kind of anger is what I use to write this story, really, and it shoots me forward so much. But still, I have to control those emotions in this writing, my own personal feelings can factor so much, but here is something to hold you, and me, over as I continue to write out Section 2.

I know the beginning, middle, and how this story ends. The stuff in between? That's a little less concrete, but I am more sure of how I am ending this than I ever had before.

Anyway, the concept for this extra part of 2-1 is my usage of Itami's original vision in the first episode: when he knocks his head. A vision that is indistinct: maybe it means nothing at all, maybe it shows him the future. Maybe...

* * *

 ** _Section 2-1 Alpha_**

* * *

I saw stars, heard the ringing in my ears, as I slipped and hit her kneecap: dead on my forehead.

What she had done instead of letting me just fall however was go for my collar and pulled oppositely of the push at my legs, sending me off balance and, with the inertia she had gained, she threw me over her back in a maddening yell.

My back had hit the sand floor hard: hard enough to knock the winds out of me and suddenly having a pen just over my jugular as Pina had mounted my chest, fire, battle, and victory in her eyes as she caught herself: blinking, unsure of what had just happened that led me to be finally thrown on the floor at her mercy in a way.

But this wasn't like a hit I had taken before: I didn't come out of it, there was no fall. It felt...

Hazy visions. People. Familiar faces. The burning world of a different scenario, or maybe, one to come.

Getting hit on the head was a romantic notion when it came to visions, but I really didn't think much of it as I was dazed and saw what I saw in an inverted monochrome apathy.

* * *

 _He had reached out as she fell out of the chopper, face, gun, and soul forward, pulling the trigger all the way down toward that rotten flesh of a being she wanted to make suffer._

 _The pain never went away._

 _"_ _ **Chuka!**_ _" the Japanese lieutenant yelled as Wilbur had held him back, he screaming._

* * *

 _"You can't make them Japanese citizens! They're not Japanese!_ _ **They're not like you!**_ _" the blonde cowboy yelled, accusingly, his prodding finger touching the Japanese lieutenant general's chest as he lashed out in return, over the bodies of slaves, and drew blood._

* * *

 _"Americans! You Americans!" she yelled at the thirty four year old lieutenant, taken aback and not understanding, even as she grabbed her wrist to stop her from hitting him._

 _"But I'm no-"_

 _"No! You are_ _ **Americans**_ _!"_

* * *

 _"You've made your grave!_ _ **Lie in it!**_ _" The blue, piercing eye'd colonel yelled out, the clacker to explosives held in his hand as the Americans rode back into the dark, the Japanese on their knees, scrambling to desperately follow as a nation threatened to destroy them whole, while another damned them to mistakes made long in the past._

* * *

 _"Your mother."_

 _"Wh- What do you mean?"_

 _"My mother. She loves me. After everything I've done. She knows. Of all the death, the things I've needed to do. My failures. And yet, she still loves me unconditionally. Without exception."_

 _"…"_

 _"Can your mother say the same?"_

 _"Well, I think that's unfai-"_

 _"Cut the bullshit. You left your mother to die. **Just like this Empire**."_

* * *

 _And so her body was_ _ **ripped apart**_ _, piece by piece by buckshot, all the way to morsels of alabaster flesh as her halberd sunk into the earth like all of her blood, disappearing into the ground when not painting the faces of those who were doing the deed._

* * *

 _She was older now. Not much older, but now an adult, leading her people in this new world, all too ironically. She looked up from her old books and saw their daughter deliver some tea to her kindly. She accepted graciously._

* * *

 _His teacher was there, as they all disembarked, and fell to the concrete as they left it all behind; **on the hard ground where it all began**. Real, or not, it didn't matter. He listened to his words, as he always had:_

 _"It hurts, doesn't it?"_

 _"Major Walker…"_

 _"Don't be too hard on yourself. You made it home, captain."_

 _"Home? I want peace, Walker. All I ever wanted…"_

 _"If only that was what everyone wanted, Emerson."_

* * *

I snapped out of it and saw that young woman holding something my neck. I recognized it.

If Doc's pen had been a knife…

"Good." had been my only response as Pina uneasily had gotten off me and stared at the pen in her hand...

A hazy collage of a memory I didn't have, visions that were not my own. That is what I think I saw. Delusions.

And I forgot them, faded away as inconsistent thoughts usually do, as Pina rose me to my feet. "You- You've learned well, princess."

"I was already well learned the arts of combat, before this, Emerson."

"Well, you beat me, not bad…"

She bowed, and I only returned it with a nod. "Shall we go out now?" she asked politely.

I nodded at that too, slowly, still recovering from her hit, unsure of what I saw.

A future? Perhaps? No. Long as we were teaching them right, long as Pina was making the doves for peace from war hawks, we were fine. That's all it ever took.

That is all, that it ever took: people who wanted nothing, nothing, but peace.

My teacher applauded me in my head.


	20. 2-2: Killing is Harmless

A/N: I'll use Father of Sin and Demon Lord interchangeably.

Anyway, after this chapter, we should be rolling with the proper military war story: this chapter establishing Emerson's mettle and how he becomes known throughout the Capital.

This is a very combat heavy chapter, and I do admit, it has a tendency to drag if you're not into that sort of stuff. However, rest assured Emerson will be reunited with Hitman next chapter and I can get on further into the plot so I can get ahead of the anime while it's down.

First half of this section will concentrate on Hitman and RCT3 in the Capital during the behind the scene peace dealings, the PX and the embassy establishment, the earthquake, and the discovery of slaves. The latter half will deal with the Flame Dragon; most of Hitman being busy during this period, the Marines will get much needed time in the spotlight.

Oh yeah, be sure the check out "The Nation" by Riptide. It's the other side of the coin, in my interpretation of GATE. Not everyone is a military type, I understand, and if you want something of a "House of Cards" story, check it out.

-Dragonheart51, pwashington: Be careful what you wish for.

-MODERN ARMED FORCES: Let's assume America runs train on the Middle East again, and a jihad is called, and unfortunately, this is the final jihad of all history because of its scale on both parties. Systematic religious and ethnic persecution as we have seen everyday across the world against Muslims and Arabs becomes, for nearly three decades, the norm and accepted because it's the only way the world knows how to deal with it. Let's assume that the war in the Middle East becomes so great, it wipes out entire cultures and powers and causes so much blood to be spilled, America's sensibilities falters, and American Arabs, those who identify of the Islamic faith, come to be persecuted as the Japanese did during World War 2, but on a much more darker scale. Religious extremism is the problem our world today faces, and this story assumes that, as we have a habit of doing, we chose the course of action that would lead to us worst possible scenario, even if we dealt with that problem.

Let's assume, while America and the coalition of the damned are destroying an entire region, that some religious extremists do something about it, that people protest and do something about it in general. People will not have it. I know the capacity of such discrimination of America, Sikhs and Muslims were murdered after 9/11. Innocent people.

I am assuming America, the world, becomes, for but a fraction of a second in history, its worst possible iteration, and forces a situation so horrible on top of the world state, that people have to abandon their faith in order to stay sane and survive. Maybe not on the measure of Nazi Germany's treatment of Jews, but on the measure of, if you just so happen to be Arab, or mistaken as a Muslim as a Sikh, or actually are Muslim, and you disagree with the consensus of the masses of the systematic tearing apart of your ethnic homeland, you will be beaten, shamed, and quite possibly lynched.

That is how I imagined America dealt with religious extremism: by choosing the worst possible scenario and dealing with it.

That is how I justify so many people turning away from religion, in this world:

 **"If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness."**

As was the words, of a Holocaust victim, scratched into the walls of a gas chamber.

Not all religious people are bad. I'm sure you know I know this, with the topic matter I write. It's only just the extremist that are causing the problem along with inherent fundamental clashes in ideology exploding into cultural and political situations. And I know, people are better than to just resort to murder, against people who differ than them. Mankind is not savage in its civil, day to day life.

But explain that to Balbir Singh Sodhi, Waqar Hasan, Abdo Ali Ahmed, and the millions that have died for following their faith.

There comes a time, right or wrong, where enough is enough, and the choice between belief and life is presented. Although in a romantic world belief is always chosen above all, beliefs only do you so good, when your life, your sanity, the people you love, are threatened, murdered, and cast asides by a society who would hate you for something you can toss away so easily, in the big picture. The best choice, the right choice, whether on an individual level or a societal level, is not always taken.

Emerson's, and indeed, most soldiers who have ever gone to war will have this belief: "Killing is wrong."

And yet...

* * *

 ** _Section 2-2_**

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 43_**

 ** _The Special Region – One night's travel to the Imperial Capital_**

* * *

I rolled my arm over and over as Cam and Doc ran their fingers over it. It was still fairly fresh, for what it was, able to fall victim to some picking that had made it continue to run.

My free hand had lightly pointed at Bannon. "This is what I get for following your advice, sergeant."

She raised an eyebrow and let out some raspy squeak as Hitman had seen my armor underneath my returned kit: This armor was not my own.

What was once white, silver, was now black and carbon. They spoke to a person that I was supposed to be: Itami had been known as Avenger now: a codename, a callsign. He had become important enough to have one now, apparently. I had had my own now, however not given by the Special Task Force.

Pina had spoken up. "It is because of your advice, Sergeant Bannon, that Emerson is now known as the **_Father of Sin_**."

* * *

 ** _Earlier_**

 ** _D-Day + 25_**

 ** _The Special Region – The Imperial Capital, Akusho – Augusta Amphitheatre_**

* * *

Emerson, soldier as he was, had gotten up from the blow quickly as the hit had made his rather still open wound on his cheek run lightly with puss. However he was on dangerous ground and did nothing but stand up, even as he was spat on by a white armored general, his hair a faded grey.

He did not bow out of his own self-respect, and it would've gotten him killed, seeing as he did not recognize this great figure.

Seeing who he was with however, had told the tale.

Pina had been on one side, in the trail position very far away: Kouji, and on the other cardinal direction it had been a tall young man of built stature and anger in his eye that had been the 2nd in the line of succession.

Pina had been the fifth child, and as such, she was overshadowed by the first: Prince Zorzal El Caesar.

Emerson and Kouji had gaped at that name when she had mentioned him off hand: Prince Caesar.

To them, it was almost too perfect. This hot blooded man with Empire in his eyes and violence in his voice. He had wanted war so badly, so much, that he had been the War Hawk of the royal family. And thus, untouchable. But he was very much tangible at that moment: his face twisted with such ugly contempt for Emerson he had done a double take.

He had seen that look only once before…

Anger. It was an emotion, and a choice: an asset to be used in war as your head was constantly being sprinkled with dust and debris and a comrade lay dying just mere, yet unreachable, feet outside of cover. It turned good men evil, temporarily, to let them live in times of justified hatred and conflict. And yet, on Zorzal's face, Emerson saw perpetual hatred: a face of a man who did not fear god, topped off by a nose of a vertical brick, eye brows thick.

If this was any other man before Zorzal, he would've been afraid.

But fear was subjective, and his face was almost as ugly and as brazed as the general which had struck down Emerson and yelled at him to kneel. This prince had the god of this empire as his father, after all. Molt was only human to him, and his children.

Pina had been his saving grace as he stood with him, but not terribly concretely:

"This is my new combat teacher!" she had said as she curled her fist, eyes closed as she said it and Emerson staring into the eyes of her father.

They were as blue as Colonel Pierce's, yet they had the age that Pierce had fought off after so long, highlighted by a blonde grooming along his jaw and a crown that had reminded Emerson of the wyverns and dragons constantly flying around the city's airspace. A long face, as befit an emperor, Emerson had thought as he dipped his head slightly, as if nodding, at Pina.

"Grey is currently on a mission at Italica for information gathering on the enemy! So, in order to keep me in top shape for battle I found the best there was!" the way she had spit that information out had been like a teenage daughter admitting some horrible deed to a parent.

It basically was as Emerson had tilted his head, eyebrows slanted as the two men had gauged each other, saw what they were:

Emerson remembered how many people wanted this man dead, even if they hadn't known who he was. Ginza had spurred on such fervor, such animosity for blood to be drawn, they wanted this man's head on a silver platter.

America wouldn't have any of that, and officially, neither did the JSDF.

Trial by due process was what had kept the surviving world sane as the commanders of ISIS, the North Korean government, and the monsters of world terror were brought to American courts, and rendered their fates, only after America had read them their sins.

Emperor Augustus would be no special case.

It was just a matter of who got to him first: America, Japan, or Death.

And here he was standing before Emerson's feet. And through his mind he had remembered one thing: Tracey.

He had been responsible for the death of one of his own men's families, and for driving that man insane.

But yet Emerson's cold eyes had met his and felt nothing, his self-consciousness reeling all that emotion back, and making sure he did not get himself killed.

And so he had taken a knee, and bowed, against every fiber of his form.

After a few short seconds he had straightened himself as all the noise of the arena was droned out in the tenseness of the situation.

Zorzal and the General had flanked Pina and Emerson on either side, the "dark elf" not appreciating it as he forced himself to stay still, to not do something, to not swipe at the prince's feet, throw him over his back, and go from there.

He didn't want to disappoint Pina, after all. Not when she had so much to prove and so much to do in the name of peace.

"My name is Kay Ro Bronxon of Clan Bronx." Emerson had said lowly first, his hood sent back finally, his ears on display.

The Vulcan ears weren't perfect, at least when compared to Chuka's, but it had added to the Imperials a little bit more of exoticism regarding who Emerson was: as if he really was from beyond the known borders of this world, which was, in a sense, true.

"Clan Bronx?" the emperor said, his voice golden, old, but deep like the echoing sound of a canyon. "I don't believe I've heard of it."

"Which I hope explains my… manners. I come from the Jungle of Manhattan; beyond the borders of the Empire to the…. east."

Pina had nodded fiercely.

The emperor had nodded. "It does, in a sense. I believe Pina was wrong not to teach you otherwise." the princess in question had the blood drain from her face. "Still. We're having a lot of trouble with powers from outside the Empire."

Emerson had licked his lips thoughtfully as he had dropped his cloak entirely, making it hand on his arm as his clothing was shown: it was familiar clothing to them, Zorzal had dressed the same way to his surprise and ire.

In fact they were his clothes, but Pina had neglected to tell Emerson that information.

"So I have heard." Emerson said as he forced himself to lighten his tone, to speak as he did a commander to this emperor. "Pina has been exploring the possibility of me being assigned to train a wider portion of Imperial Forces."

"Are you a combat master?" Zorzal had spoken up for the first time, the man taller than Emerson. He wanted a reaffirmation, that much Emerson had known as the Emperor looked at him, asking the same question non-verbally.

"I was born without conventional use of magic," he said. "I've had to expand my expertise accordingly."

"Do you belong to an army?" Zorzal had asked again, digging for information that Pina had been withholding.

She had been playing the part of information broker across every front rather spectacularly. She had personally reasoned it wasn't lying if she didn't say anything at all.

"Back home. Yes."

"How big?"

Three million active personnel. One trillion USD in budget. 1.1 million dead in wartime to date. From the Revolution, to the Philippines, Tripoli, the Falaise Gap, Okinawa, Normandy, Khe Sanh, Little Big Horn, the 38th Parallel, Grenada, the Balkans, Kandahar and Baghdad, Tehran, and Ginza.

There wasn't a land on earth, where American blood hadn't been spilled.

"Oh, it is of no concern to you Prince Caesar. It is only recently we have heard about the Empire, and your Imperial Army's current confrontation at Arnus."

The man had looked offended as Emerson said this lightly. Ready enough to start a war. He looked back at his father, as if wanting him to let him loose, but he had shook his head in the negative.

The general, adorned in his silver and white armor, had furrowed his dusty browed gaze at him: he was old. Older than Zorzal, but younger than Grey.

It was with that glare did Emerson recognize that this had been one of the War Hawks. If not THE War Hawk.

For all the pomp and power of the majority that had been the War Hawks, senators and politicians could not do much in the end against the approaching Special Task Force. An actual military officer could however.

General Foulke had been that military officer. In fact he was the Imperial Officer that had "valiantly" led the allied armies to Arnus the day after it was taken and hoodwinked the allied armies themselves after he had pulled back and let them die instead of him and his troops.

It was because of his maneuvering that any opposition from the other kingdoms was no squashed due to their militaries and command being devastated.

It was with this momentum Foulke had he had handed off command to a General Hebron, who staged the failed attack on Italica.

From these two instances alone, despite how much this man's appearance did not lend much to it, as if he was a hawk, Emerson had deduced he was a coward.

Retreating, tactical pull backs, were one thing. Letting men die because of not wanting to fight an enemy was another.

That was Emerson's first impression from Pina's bellyaching alone. The actual first impression had been a touch more less impressive.

His face was round, and his shoulders broad, his face scarred up by a thousand battles lived and won for this empire: one too many done by the bunnies that Zorzal had personally conquered himself. He had been Zorzarl's field commander after all. As Pina had Grey, Zorzal had Foulke.

A soldier had often been shaped by their mentor, and if Zorzal's attitude just by visage at Emerson had said something, Foulke's actions had made just about the same sense as he drew his sword still, even as the emperor was addressing him.

"Such a peculiar creature. You are." Augustus had said slowly, reaching out a hand from underneath his cloak and reached out toward Emerson, the man petrified as he reached past Pina and touched over his scarred cheek. "Your skin is young, for a dark elf. You have not been out on the battlefield long."

The back of his fingers passed over Emerson's budding facial hair, he having been clean shaven, his hair a close buzz cut that had been cut with an accuracy not seen by the barbers of the Empire. The "dark elf" had been silent as his fingers judged him, prodded at his jaw and cheek and drew knowledge that sight alone could not reveal.

"How long have you been at war, darkie?" Foulke's words had brought Emerson out of his trance, his face contorted to an unkind.

"For almost one third of my life." In the military, more specifically.

Foulke had been at war for his entire life, and he had been unimpressed with Emerson, even if he didn't know who he was.

What Foulke fought for, versus what Emerson fought for.

A simplification of a larger issue: of a war being fought on the empire's doorstep.

"Is this beast who you see fit to train your daughter, my emperor?" he had said as he pointed at Emerson, his words concise.

"If a beast can train my daughter right, I see why not. Do you agree, my son?"

The son had tilted his head for a second before a grin had flashed on his face: "I am above the concept of demeaning individuals on their race and species father. I see no problem."

"Grey was tolerable enough. He was human. But I don't exactly agree with having a darkie train one of our princesses in this delicate time, my emperor." he had spat.

Racism. Emerson had to deal with it as the man he was, where he grew up: ethnocentricities and prejudice that was in the bones of an American world. The people knew better as a whole, but still, there were always a few bad apples that used that racial hate today still, despite the time and era.

It had happened casually on the mean streets of the Bronx to him, but Emerson had remembered it most distinctly in that one life changing incident that had made him unsure of what kind of person he was doing in his life.

" ** _Nigger._** " That is what Professor Jie, the Chinese professor that had backed into Emerson and promptly beat him because he was in the wrong place in the wrong time had called him. He had made him less of a man under his boot, and Emerson had always punished himself by proving that, by not fighting back.

That brewing hatred, regret, stayed with him to be used. And here it had come out involuntarily, his nose flaring at the general.

The man had seen this however, reaching out and taking Emerson by the neck.

"What is on your mind, you beast? Huh?!" he had said, face to face, almost mouth to mouth.

If Emerson had been truthful, he would've said beating this man to death, as was the rage coming into his veins. But he kept calm superficially. "What is on my mind, is that I think it is wrong for you to underestimate me."

* * *

The knife that had been hidden in the man's leather gauntlets, underneath his white, ribbed sleeves had come out at the sound of dissent toward Emerson's chin in a swipe as the man went chest to chest with the man.

Killing servants, beasts, was a commonly observed practice on Sadera Hill.

Having them fight back was something else, however, as Emerson's right hand had shot up and caught his wrist before the blade made contact with his face, bending the bones to a lock as his hand's reaction was to open, the knife being sent to the floor as Emerson rotated around the man, holding onto his wrist as his free hand put to the man's silver armored chest and pushed down to the ground.

Kouji in the background, having tagged along with Pina to observe her and her father, had clenched is eyes shut as his guards got ready for the worst.

"Do you have to beat up everyone you meet?!" Pina had yelled as she had shoved her way past several of Foulke's guards and went back to back with Emerson, her arms out, waving them all back as Emerson stood over Foulke, the man grabbing his paralyzed wrist as he writhed on the ground.

All the Emperor had done was raised his eyebrow.

What tenacity, he had thought. At least this man had the measure to actually confront him, as opposed to the strange man and his guards tailing him several feet away.

"Forgive me, my father." Pina had spit out as she had smacked Emerson's ever sturdy arm as he stood above Foulke, the two sharing a gaze of murder. " ** _Americans_** tend to fight, wherever they go."

She had caught herself as the word fell out of her mouth, not doing anything but gagging as Emerson had heard what he was uttered in the clear, open air as the murmur of the crowd continued around the box.

"American?" Emerson's blood had froze as he heard that emperor, and all the power he exhumed in his aura, say what he was.

"This continent is not the only one in existence, Emperor." Emerson had quickly responded, still looking onto Foulke's face. He had truly wondered how many battles he had fought. "I come from a continent, beyond your known world, that is called America."

The emperor had suspected something different, but his empire was not infinite, and the known world had seemed so. This man's eyes had seemed old enough to have come from so far away.

"What is America like, Kay Ro Bronxon?" he asked, honestly intrigued as Foulke had shuffled away into his mass of guards, the emperor's hands stretching, their weapons brought down at Kay because of it.

"Oh, beautiful. Spacious skies. Amber waves of grain. Purple mountain majesties above fruited plains. America, America, god shed his grace on thee. Oh beautiful for our patriot dream, which sees beyond the years, alabaster cities gleam undimmed by human tears. And he has crowned our good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea."

The description was built into a hymn, and Kouji, Emerson had just noticed him in the background, had looked shocked.

Of all the careful planning of the Japanese to sell their case to the Emperor about Japan for peace, America had gotten their first, inadvertently, accidentally.

And Pina could do nothing, as Emerson was reminded of home.

"And yet you came here?"

"America is in my heart, Emperor, she will always be with me, even so far from home."

To identify yourself with a nation, not out of political leanings, or citizenship, but for love… it was unheard of in that day of age. The emperor raised his blonde eyebrow. There was no word for Patriot, in the lingua franca.

"It must be a great land."

"A great nation."

"An elven nation?"

"Not of one people, Emperor. Of hundreds. We are not a nation of people, defined by the people, we are for the people, by the people. America is not an elven nation, we are simply American, regardless of who we are."

"What brings you to my capital, Kay Ro Bronxon?"

"I am a restless man, Emperor: chasing some ambiguous mission in this foreign land and hope I can gain something from it."

"A rather ambiguous objective indeed."

Between meeting Obama, staring down 20,0000 men, killing a dragon with his bare hands, being there at Ginza, and having dealt with the captivation of the world for the last few months, Emerson knew that this emperor before him had no right to scare him.

As he had to remind himself so many times: he was only human. And that applied to everyone, in some way or another.

"Maybe one day then…" Foulke had risen as he had cracked his wrist from Emerson's handling. "America will know the benefits of Imperial power."

"My land has known what it was like to live under an Empire before, General. It is not something we are quite fond of."

"America surely cannot be as great as my Emperor's Empire." he responded.

"I never said anything of the like, General." Emerson shot back innocently as the stances of all those around had laxxed, even as the sound of a man losing his arm in the background was ever present. The exhibition matches of gladiators and Imperial Soldiers had been an entertaining, if not recruitful, way to use this arena.

The emperor had looked to Foulke, both his eyebrows raised momentarily with a nod.

"It is strange though," the emperor had cocked his hips. "That you show up now, of all days. These turbulent times…"

"You refer to the conflict on Arnus Hill?"

Foulke had grimaced further with Zorzal as Pina held her breath, the emperor nodding once. "It is not common knowledge, but it seems someone such as you who has traveled this far, might've seen these… men in green and tan."

"Men and women, actually. So I've observed."

"So yes?"

"I have passed through the territory of the trading hub you know as Italica. They have not shown any hostilities to me before I passed on to the capital."

The emperor had leaned in, and looked into his eyes, green, cold, desperate, and human.

"How long have you been away from home?"

Emerson had opened his mouth to answer the question, but as easy as it should've been, it was something he hadn't thought of at all himself.

The answer had upset him. Perhaps not visibly, but as was the case, not all the damage done to him nowadays hadn't been visible:

"It's been one year."

One year since he had set foot on American soil.

And the emperor had known he was telling the truth.

* * *

And so I told him of what I taught Pina. Of how I had beat her and her order into submission, like horses, and I told them how I fought as an elf "cut off" from magic.

Nothing more than glorified hand to hand combat. But yet, they had taken its weight in gold: this Rose Order had known CQC before me: the Marines that had taken them down during Italica had used it on them to great effect, and there was that shame that carried with them today.

Pina had remember Nutt's words to her, during their lesson, quoted from an ancient lord of war: Know your enemy.

And so the Rose Order did in movement, and Pina had known in soul from her notes.

I had to give her a lot more credit than I had already given: to call me "American" the way she did. She knew what she had meant, not as an offhand comment on my bad habits.

"Forgive my discretions, Emperor Molt." I had said after a lull, long after me and Foulke had done our game of a staring context. What civility we had left had made us stand on opposite sides of these three seats, reserved for the three Imperial royals.

"These are extra-ordinary times, Kay Ro Bronxon, I do not have the time to fully address such platitudes as formality to a foreigner."

"I am thankful then."

"You should be more than thankful." Zorzal had said across from me, Pima shaking her head subtly even as the crowds had all been shouting their names in cheer. Her gaze had told me she didn't want me here, and the dead gaze of Kouji in the back had been doubly so.

"Was your day productive, so far, Kay?" she asked, trying to draw me away from her brother.

"Yes. Quite so. Saw a few of the slave markets, avoided eating human flesh, and saw a few of the recruitment drives around town."

"Ah, so you've been keeping around Akusho then?"

"How a nation treats its poorest, is often the purest one can view a nation. I'm not entirely happy, princess. You know why." I said aloud, enough that the royals could hear.

"Why, my daughter?" the emperor asked as a sabretooth tiger was let out on stage for a bundle of prisoners to grapple with.

And so she was forced to speak of America, as she knew it. Not as I had. "America is a land of liberty. The concept of slavery to them: our conquests, is detestable."

"And how is there society doing?"

She had not visited America to say, yes, but she had figured it was greater than Japan. Just because she had known of what Japan was to America, and what America was to Japan: a nation that had been beat into submission, and risen up in their name.

Her look to her father, had told him that she did not want to say.

"How did you meet my daughter, Kay Ro Bronxon?" the emperor had sidetracked.

I had put my hands behind my back, silently adjusting my belt, the leather holster for my Winchester still on tight and flush with my skirt beneath the cloak. "I believe she was on a mission to investigate the enemy force at Arnus Hill. I saved her life one day from bandits."

"Is this true?" he asked Pina.

"Yes, father…"

"Then you have my thanks."

"Heh." Zorzal had chuckled rather meanly.

And so the emperor of this empire had talked to me as a father, curling his two hands together as the animal below had torn the throat out of a feline human, the crowd reacting appropriately in amorous uproar. His hands had been old, covered by rings and jewels.

"I am not a man to judge the beliefs or the practices of states outside of this Empire. It is none of my business, and if that is how your nation operates, then good for your people. But do not judge the building blocks of my Empire, Kay Ro Bronxon."

"You do you, and we'll do we, Emperor Molt. I'm sure our… empires, will meet one day."

"Is that a challenge, darkie?" Three of the would be gladiators in plain clothes and leather bindings had held the sabretooth down as one of the reptilian humanoids had used its own teeth and bit down on the sabretooth's neck, tearing away flesh.

I grit my jaw as he called me that word. "It's an inevitability."

"Then I suppose I'll be there when it happens."

"I was speaking more on the grounds of diplomatic relations, but if you want to fight, I'm afraid we won't be so easy to spur."

"Afraid of a fight?"

"War isn't the best answer, general. **_Killing is a sin_**."

As what I had said as I stood on the edge of that cratered shaped arena, the viewing box of royalty. I said it in scorn, and I knew Pina had saw my hypocrisy.

"And I do not admire men who make their conquest in the express hopes of killing."

"How does any good power intend to expand then? To survive?" Foulke asked, unbelieving.

"At the very most, killing is the mean, the last resort."

"And yet you seemed so mastered of it."

My heart had stopped as my conscious took the response fully. What a shame, that I had become a mastered fighter. Not for my own protection, but to expressly kill.

But I suppose that was just a reflection of a security dilemma: weapons, soldiers, made and trained in the name of defense are hardly recognizable from those made for war.

"One has to, when the world around you choses the worst option, and give way to the worst kind of people. General Foulke… all this pomp, power: recruiting for this war that will come. It will do you no good."

"The enemy is simply just another legion of man. No better an enemy I or this Empire has faced before."

I scoffed. "As if you have been to war, General." I said as he walked closer to me, in my face, talking into my ear. I showed no reaction.

"What do you mean, darkie?" he bit back.

"I have studied this empire well, in my travels. Know its history, who it has fought. The enemy on Arnus Hill is an enemy you have never faced before in any way, and you will find that killing them is nothing but a misguided vanity of this empire's routine. War is hardly routine."

"And what do you know of war if you are opposed to it?"

"More than you ever will, General."

"I will find America one day. This new world, and I will conquer it, as we have the warriors of the eastern plains. Know this, you degenerate."

And I was sent down to the ground, the emperor totally disinterested as I saw Foulke walk away into the dark. That was something I could not allow as I stood.

There was the other motto of the 75th that I hadn't seen much in play recently, but it was a broader statement: something that defined human action and tendencies at their most pure.

 _Sua sponte_. Of their own accord.

It explained my step toward the back of General Foulke, the sound of it making him stop and look at me with the gaze no man should ever see: of death.

If I was living as an Imperial, I would do so in steed: as a warrior.

"I challenge you to combat, General Foulke! One on one!"

The man had laughed immediately, his guards blocking me off as he stood, eye to eye with me.

"What right does a degenerate darkie have to take me on?"

"Every right, general. Same as you." he only clapped and walked away as a guard had pushed me down to the ground, Pina reaching down to rise me up, but I waved my arm for her to back off. "Are you really as great a general as you claim?! I saw your forces killed at Italica, how you were a coward at Arnus Hill!"

"How would you-"

"I saw your force there General! How you let General Hebron take your place as you fled! You're a coward, general!"

The Imperials looked at me if I was crazy, but there was weight to my words that spoke to the truth. As if I was there, as if I was in that battle. Of course, they had no indication that I really did, but truth is often ugly.

And no one had wanted to stare at the ugly, dead on, and accept it.

Sports are a metaphor for combat, but this was combat in the disguise of sport.

I suppose it was no surprise I was to pay tribute, as I felt piece of metal blunt itself on the back of my head.

* * *

Zorzal had knocked the dark elf on the back of his head before Pina could protest, Kouji watching from the shadows as the rest of the senators and military commanders there simply watched.

"Send him to the field, Zorzal, Foulke. I wish to see if he truly is fit to train my daughter."

And Pina herself could say nothing as Emerson's body was dragged away by a few guards in lieu of Zorzal and Foulke and a runner was sent to the "announcer" about a new challenger.

But, deep down, perhaps, she wasn't worried. Emerson had won, however, he'd be riding her of the largest War Hawk in the capital. Darkly however, she had thought, if Foulke won, she would've finally known what it would've been like for the Empire to kill one of the Special Task Force.

She couldn't tell if she preferred one outcome over the over. She knew what Bozes, or Hamilton, would've said, but not herself.

"I suppose this is the closest we'll ever get to actually fighting, my dear sister." Zorzal had said as he had settled in his seat.

* * *

Being dragged on my back, my cloak dragging as a rope was around my neck, I had assumed the worst as I came through with the setting sun overhead with an orange sky, my hands bound as two Imperials had hauled me to my feet before I knew what was happening to me, and stood me at the center of the Imperial world.

They had disappeared as horns rung out, and I was left with only the cries of an announcer yelling out as I grappled with my binds: the rope still around my neck.

"And now in the arena: Kay Ro Bronxon! A dark elf from the far lands of America! A warrior of unknown age who has risen to train the Princess Pina Co Lada in this time of war! However, our proud General Kamal Foulke, hero of Arnus Hill, has been challenged by this beast, wanting to discredit his achievements to cowardice! This **_Father of Sin_**! Today as we display the combat prowess of our Imperial Knights, we too, shall see if this Dark Elf's challenge to the entire Empire is not an insult! Betting starts now! And remember! If you join our ranks right this moment, you have the chance to fight the Father of Sin in the arena, right at this moment!"

And the crowd had boo'd me, and I had known when a crowd had boo'd with their hearts. One too many Red Sox games I had seen.

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

"If killing a sin, then I suppose all of us who believe in Emroy are damned! Let the beast bleed!"

And so the gates around the arena had opened, the first of my would be challengers walking out, no better off than me.

Of all the cruel irony, of all the absurdity of what I had gotten into, I suppose it was fitting that my first opponents in this arena be slaves.

* * *

Emerson knew what slaves looked like. Especially after today, after Seyton and Samnu had gave him a tour. He knew the look, the way they walked: of not wanting to do what they were told to do.

It was very similar to how the Americans walked, after Italica. The casualty amount of the first year of Operation Open Wind, the invasion of Iran, had been recreated in one bloody afternoon. One incomprehensible afternoon denoted by heavy machine gun fire and never enough ammo; a highway to hell made by men.

The Japanese did not know the full weight of such a loss of life, like America had: reliving the past, passing by their vision, taunting them and dragging them to reality again.

The JSDF, Hazama, had called Italica a victory, minus the Marines occupying Italica in the end.

The Marines, the Americans, had called it as it really was, regardless of the dehumanizing military lingo: a disaster, a failure.

The Japanese were not the ones to pick up the bodies. They never did.

Italica's residents who had survived would never forget the horror, and the perceptions they had on the Marines as they alone had carried each of those bodies to the funeral pyre as they treated them for their injuries. Such a double sided people, to kill, and mourn those who they had killed.

Twelve slaves, with clubs, of different races and species.

He raised his hands, trying to open his palms in a stop, but they were bound.

"I- I won't play this game Foulke!"

He wouldn't kill slaves.

Not that they would return the platitude.

Wherein Emerson had killed for Freedom, so had these slaves, as the announcer's voice boomed like God to the roaring crowds.

"These slaves are brought to you today by Cowellian Family! If they are able to kill this so called combat master, they ensure the freedom of their families and themselves! However, if the Father of Sin, this Demon Lord, can kill enough of them, he will get to go free, and maybe General Foulke will forgive him!"

What Emerson had brought to this peculiar battlefield had been what had been on his form: and what little armor that had been under his cloak had been superficial, no more than Pina had worn, which hadn't been a lot. The Winchester, however, had been there, but he had no intention of using it. Not in this public. Not without choice.

He hadn't even thought of using it against these desperate few, however.

The arena had lended nothing to him, save for the sand and dust below, still painted with blood from the fights that had gone throughout the day.

The twelve had surrounded him as he twisted around, his fists shuffling and shifting in their bindings.

"Don't make me hurt you!"

He saw their lashings, their skin, beneath the rags. Men, women, wanting to kill him for the greater good. No matter who he was, they needed him dead.

And they said nothing to his words, as the largest of the bunch: another reptile, had come forward, this one very much like a Gorn.

Towered above Emerson as he had stood his ground, not wanting to fall back to the waiting clubs at his six o'clock.

One thing during his Ranger training that had prepared him for this, as absurd as it was, was that there was always an answer to aggression: a counter to a reaction and action, no matter how imposing.

Most of them just involved getting said problems onto the ground.

Claws had been an asset to this beast enough that they had lashed out at Emerson first, his urge to raise two arms up and deflect with his forearms taken away as he simply backed up, the extension of the beasts's scaly arms locked as Emerson went low and between the legs with his locked arms, hauling the lizard up with a push, off the ground, and eventually down on the ground in a crack as he had went through his legs and toppled the beast in short order.

And the crowd was silent, they were waiting for blood.

One of the men had ran at Emerson with his club, the soldier responding by clamping his two forearms together and directing the swing to just above his elbows, the pang of hurt better than the shattering of bone as the man recoil, Emerson kicking the man out of his space in a kick.

The lizard had tried to haul itself up, but Emerson's sandals had banged its head against the ground before it could, knocking the beast out as he stood over it: its mouth open and sharpened like blades as Emerson dragged the rope on his wrists across a row, freeing himself, grasping at the rope around his neck to no avail.

"You don't want to fight me!" he pleaded, begged.

But they, without choice, did and he did not kill.

* * *

The bodies had piled up as the hours went on. Not dead, however, much to the displeasure and the booing of the crowd.

Wave 16 by Pina's count, the betting of denarii slowly moving into Emerson's favor. That was, in the hopes, that he would kill eventually. But he chose not to, even as he had taken a few clubs to the head and his bones, and was currently being beaten by a walking puma's knee as he had wrapped himself around his stomach, only to drive the beast down to the ground in a slam.

The crowd had been getting as so desperate for blood knives and personal items had been thrown into the ring, the rope around Emerson's neck still there as he had thrown away blade after blade from those who dared used them. The slaves, street thugs, and new Imperial recruits that had been picked up on the spot had been thrown at him, and he had thrown them back, literally.

His only kills having been the animals: wolves, lions, even a giant chicken had been sent his way and he had emerged victorious: half a wolf's jaw from splitting a wolf's head in two with his foot being pushed down on its mouth the most gruesome cause for cheering today from Emerson, the carcass of the lion hacked to death as he finally picked up a blade only for that occasion.

Zorzal's and Foulke's faces had contorted into an annoyed as those knocked out were dragged off the field. Being knocked out was just as good as dead to the arena keepers: entertainment did not come from men and women out cold. Eventually, as Emerson had hoped, they would run out of tributes as he proved his point.

"Your tutor is certainly a man of his word." The emperor had barely changed his facial expression as he looked down at Emerson: bloody and bruised, but not a killer that particular day as the hour went on.

Emerson's rambling down on the field had gotten more and more audible as the crowds had silenced. A man in combat had often screamed many things, but for Emerson, it had been sarcastic misgivings, on how dare Foulke send the weak and weary to fight him, instead of soldiers. On how, on this day where apparently Imperial Regulars were being displayed at full power in this arena, none had come to test Emerson.

They had seen him fight now for sixteen waves of everything, and they held them back for good reason.

"Send your troops out, General Foulke. Best not to keep your challenger waiting."

"...What, my emperor?"

"I said give him what he wants. If he would train my daughter, my Imperial Army, eventually, I'd like to see if he can best the best your regiment can offer."

Zorzal had simply looked back at his mentor, and nodded, and the order was given out as Emerson had stopped just short of punching the nose in of one of the more feline opponents, her paws raised up, to stop him.

"Please. Just kill me." she said, pleaded. Emerson's combat high had drained out of him as someone finally talked to him, out of all those challengers.

"You don't deserve to die, Miss." he responded simply as his fists unfurled, and reached down and grabbed her arm. "I don't deserve to kill you."

"Please. Don't send me back to them." she responded in turn, more and more desperate. Another slave. Perhaps another dialogue would've happened, in another world, her fur all ripped and burned to near nothing, her pride gone as Emerson had opened his mouth to tell her otherwise, of hope.

But as death does, all that was denied as her breath escaped her body, and she slumped forward into Emerson as he felt the bolt that punched through her heart also touch him. The crowd had just got reinterested as crossbowman had emerged from the gates of that arena, piling out behind Foulke's personal guard: his emblem on their shields and armor.

There had been more, and this dead woman had been his shield as he cringed at the thought of it, feeling impact after impact hit the body as the gaurds all slowly surrounded him, and the crowd murmured of action finally happening.

"Oh no! It looks like Foulke's personal guard is out! Will it be time for blood to finally flow?"

A body was just a body at that point, that was Emerson told himself as he felt the life drain out of this particular being, her back pierced and punched through by metal and wood bolts as they suppressed him enough for Foulke's guard to surround him.

* * *

Foulke's gaurd came at me, ever closer, and against all my will, all my good intentions, I had a weapon to use, and I would die unless I had used it and exposed this Imperial public to the notion of the firearm.

It was do or die, and I knew what I had chosen as I had used my right arm to flip open the leather flap of the concealing holster on my hip, my cloak being sent to the ground as my armor had shined in the sun of another world.

My hand had found the stock fast, it pulling the custom Winchester straight up one handed as my left arm had raised to make a stopping motion at the knight that had been charging me.

There was no stopping a man who had been charging at me with a pike, his face contorted in a war cry. But the very dust in the air had been my weapon as my right hand struggled to find a hold on my Winchester proper, my right foot scooping up some in a wide slash across the dirt, right into the man's face, causing him to stumble, allowing me to side step him enough to give me time to finally bring ready my weapon.

Kouji sucked in his breath hard, his incognito guards well aware of the same weapons they had underneath their cloaks.

The rumor, the myth, of the firearm in this world had been explored by the Empire surely, as Rome had done, but much like Rome they never got that far with it, no meaningful equivalent except for, perhaps, the crossbow that had been aimed at me from the perimeter of the knights that had surrounded me.

But they held their fire as they witnessed a comrade miss his mark, sent to the floor as I pressed my palm on his back, onto his chest, and wave this strange instrument I had down at his head.

What came next had painted me red.

This Winchester was special. Chambered in the same round that the M1 Garand had been: thirty aught six. A military cartridge that was not meant for this type of rifle: Masterson's instruction of how to use such a cut down weapon having me know how to use it one handed. I trusted his instruction as a pro action shooter back in Texas, especially with lever actions and pump guns.

It was a weapon that bucked in my hands like a bred race horse that both he and Bannon knew how to ride, bursting at the seams with its elegant inscriptions of gold in its black receiver: of Japanese design that spoke to the winds of destruction.

The other thing that had burst was this man's head in his helmet.

Perhaps the roar of the crowd did not understand what that loud noise of gunfire was, or maybe they had revealed in it, didn't question it as they cried out in joy at my first blood, but those who were looking down for reasons other than entertainment had seen something they didn't expect to see.

This man's face had been toward the dirt floor, so I only saw the concave of his face from the flayed portions of his head that came out form underneath the helmet.

I didn't concentrate too much on my first kill that day as I had on impulse, spun the Winchester by its lever, the action cycling as I brought it inline with an Archer my vision had already been centered at.

A shot had gotten off before the first cycled cartridge had hit the ground, the man's chest pierced as he had brought his crossbow up and fired off a bolt uncontrolled: out into the spectators to rapturous applause as one of those onlookers had taken it, so I presumed as I let the rifle fall as I kept my fingers in the lever loop, the casing flying out as I whipped it back up, my head already finding another crossbow user as I cycled through targets and dehumanized myself.

* * *

During the first deliberations after the fall of Arnus Hill to the Special Task Force, the Empire and its senate had listened to the tale of one of the fallen general's scribes of that amassed army of "allied" states.

Of Arnus Hill exploding, spears and stars being thrown at them from what seemed like leagues away, men being chopped to pieces like wood: inanimate objects, discarded to the winds by the ugly power that had been the enemy.

There had been only two known command survivors: one disgraced, and one heralded as a hero. Lord Duran of the Elbe Fiefdom had been missing in action ever since the Battle for Arnus hill, and the Empire had wanted him in on treason and desertion from duty, however, General Foulke had survived… mostly because he hadn't been at the battle at all with his army, as per the Emperor's motives and plans.

The Emperor was perhaps the only man in all of the Imperial realm to know of how deadly the JSDF really was, he of all people was qualified to know when the Empire had met its match. But the JSDF wasn't his only adversary, it was only one more, albeit the newest contender.

He had heeded the soothsayer's words in full, although he didn't show it.

So perhaps that is why he was unsurprised this well-traveled dark elf which had just cut down of Foulke's personal guard had used something that sounded so similar to those weapons used at Arnus. The others in the box had shuddered at the sound as Pina herself held her mouth shut.

That weapon though, whatever it was, had seemed different from the reports: most like a short sword: not like some metal, black, monstrosity the enemy forces from the other side of the GATE had wielded. What little information was coming back from Arnus had spoken to the white, people in green.

This man was black, he wasn't a human, and he spoke the lingua franca rather well. That is what the Emperor, what all but Pina's staff had known and observed.

He suspected nothing as that fiery trumpet killed several of his Imperial soldiers.

After all, he had been invested in his daughter's combat ability. He was a father, after all, and she was in line for succession.

Of all the pomp that the world had given him, as if a living god, he had aged.

Nowadays, he aged further still, faster than he ever had before.

"Go, Foulke. Prove your worth."

The emperor's words had cut through that spectator box as the Emperor sat at its front, two of his children, Zorzal and Pina, flanking him in their own seats.

The general looked surprise, aghast. "My emperor?! Surely you don't mean to give validity to that-" another shot rung out, the last crossbow wielder going down as a knight finally got within slashing distance, Emerson running out of ammo in the tube as the sword hit the ground in front of him as he backed off. "You don't mean to give validity to his challenge, do you?"

"His challenge is valid, General Foulke."

And that was all the emperor said as the remaining guards looked from Emerson, to their General, and knew who their commander in chief was above all. They put their square shields down next to their General. Not defensively, but persuasively.

"I will not have those who teach my children squabble over their own preconceived notions of right or wrong. If there is such a dispute, a challenge, I will see it done as quick as possible. This I owe to my children: to make sure they have their best guidance."

The two children had bucked and chinned up as their father had talked of them.

"If you deny Kay Ro Bronxon's challenge, you are dead to me, and Zorzal's upbringing will be in question."

Zorzal had turned over his mentor and gave him the same glare he gave Emerson. How quick perceptions change, under the gun.

The knight had swiped up with the sword again as Emerson shifted back, holding his Winchester across his chest as he thumbed in one round into the tube, once the man seating it in with another shove of the lever, falling onto his back as the Imperial brought his sword up to the sky.

Foulke's knight had meant to lunge down, impaling Emerson, but the man had reached out with his gun through his throat. The bullet had took his breath away, the sword falling limply out his hands as they went to unconsciously plug his neck.

Legs had swept the man however, Emerson rolling to pick up his fallen sword, and stand as the knights all looked at him, and backed off, once they knew the power of the gun that aimed at them.

* * *

I had let the lever cock one more time before the rifle had fell back its leather holstering, ready for another flurry of shots if needed as I panted, the man at my feet choking to death as I simply waved his sword across his neck swiftly, one last time, not knowing what I was doing: only to decapitate the man.

Needless violence. Needless blood. But this was the way it was supposed to be: not soldier to civilian, the unwilling. This was soldier to soldier.

I screamed out. "Foulke! Do you want to see more of your soldiers die?!" I pointed a finger at each and every one of them as I kept the sword in my other hand, approaching them, they backing off as they blinked at the rage in my eyes: "Do you want to die? Do you? Do you?"

They had no answer as I went on, dropping my sword to the ground, pointing at bodies instead. "What was his name?! Or his? Or his? What will his family think? Or his child? Or his wife? What business did he have left in his life? What could he have done? No one here needs to die today!"

"Then why did they?!" one of them had yelled at me, spit catching on his helmet.

"Who told you to come out here? To die? To kill?"

"General Foulke!"

" ** _Am I cause worth dying for?!_** When there's a god damned army on your doorstep on Arnus?! Huh?! Please! Kill me if I truly am!"

I heard rushing to my back, a spear almost impaling me through my spine, if not for me tossing myself to the side and springing myself back up, taking the spear and dragging its holder to me, decking him across my arm before using my foot to roll him to his comrades.

"Go, or die, whatever the case, I will not allow you to kill me."

"It is not them they will need to worry about, darkie!"

* * *

Foulke had been less than politely shoved onto the stage by his emperor, but even in his own arrogance, all so delightfully shown off in Zorzal, had he gone down with his fears swallowed and a shield and a sword.

His guards had made a pathway all the way to Emerson, surrounding him, but not threatening: a red carpet of death to a little circle in the middle of the arena for all to see.

Black and white, is what the armor had shone. Perhaps it was such a battle.

"What manner of weapon is that, Bronxon? Such a weapon to deny honor! Where is your bravery, your physicality which you had displayed earl-"

Emerson had risen his rifle, but Foulke had been a quick man enough to raise his hand from the middle of his tirade, and an arrow to come from it: a little mechanism hidden in his cuffs of bolts.

The man had been a good enough of a shot to deflect off of the gun as it was firing, the shot sent into the sky as Emerson had stumbled, not knowing what happened as the gun wobbled in his hand: its barrel marred.

Foulke had yanked some lever underneath his sleeves again as he had his own projectile weapon, Emerson releasing this too late as he had dropped the sword in his hand and kicked up one of the fallen shields to his front, the bolt riccohetting off of it to the ground.

When Emerson had looked up from behind the iron shield he had ducked is head back behind it as a blade had pushed itself tip first into his protection, forcing him back as the circle closed off and his heels into the dirt.

The sword dragged along to the side, the blade pushing the side away as his chest was open to Foulke's sword.

The only thing Emerson could do was use his Winchester's grip to punch the blade away before it cut through his chest, the wood cracking in one sickly sound as Emerson's left arm rebounded with the shield, punching his body away in a punt.

Dropping the broke Winchester the sword had come into his grip as Foulke and Emerson squared off, walking, orbiting each other.

"There's no such thing as honor on the battlefield, General Foulke. Only who is dead, and who is not."

The bolt gun on the man's wrist had been locked back again, and Emerson had instinctively brought his shield up. It was at a slant however, when the wrist bound device had fired off it had rode along its curvature, right into Emerson's thigh.

" ** _Hoh shit!_** " the man spoke his native tongue as Foulke closed in again, the sound of metal clashing as shield and sword collided making the crowd urge on as it had before Emerson had showed up, the crunched form Emerson had to take while taking the hit making the bolt in his thigh drag before the man had found the time to rip it out: leaking.

"At least you bleed, darkie!" Foulke had bashed his own sword against his shield as his opponent grunted through his teeth, rolling the bloodied bolt under his sandals before kicking it away.

Emerson had charged forward behind his iron shield toward Foulke like a linesman, the two slabs of metal colliding in a deafening ring as both their swords had met under the cusp, Foulke sliding from the grapple and hitting the side of Emerson's shield again, only for it to be drawn away.

Emerson was in no way a proficient sword fighter, so in that opportunity to stab through his hearts as his arms opened up, he had instead only hit his sword with his own, trying to beat it out of the man, only for him to catch the blade and push Emerson back and have him hold his sword over his head.

The only reason why his head hadn't been split in two was because in some instinctive maneuver Emerson had held the weapon over his head as the blunt side of his own cold steel touched is head as it took the hit, sparks flying as he bent back and went on his back.

He saw open shins, and Emerson had flicked his shield at them as he rolled away from an impaling hit, the General falling face first in the dirt as Emerson tried the same, only to be backhanded by the general.

A punch to the gut off the rebound had made Emerson spit up blood to the crowd's delight as they yelled.

That leakage had been courtesy of the shockwave of Italica, weeks before, bile and blood in his stomach coming up as he took the hit hard.

As Major Walker had told Emerson however, this pain was simply weakness leaving his body. That is what Emerson had automatically thought as his throat burned with what he had hurled onto the ground, but thinking about Major Walker had brought something else out of him:

Rage. That same rage that Walker had told him to hold onto, so long ago.

"I joined this military so I could tame beasts like you!" the general yelled.

" ** _I could say the same!_** "

He dropped his sword, his shield, and took to Foulke even as he continued to leak out of his mouth: yelling a primeval yell that matched the ferocity of the crowd.

Foulke's forearm extended with his own sword, Emerson barely shifting his body enough to be fully stabbed: his right elbow dragging across sharpened steel as he collided with the general and bit down on his hand holding the sword.

Unbeknownst to Emerson, this something of a love bite had been associated all too intimately with Emroy's apostles: Rory in particular. Drawing blood, making his hand spring open and release his sword, his teeth and tongue tasting the copper of another man, it was distinctly Rory like as the crowd had observed.

Foulke had rolled the arm that was being bit in, mounting Emerson as they reversed, his hands around the man's throat and pushing down, pinning him into the earth as he got rid of the rope that was around his neck for better hand hold.

And Kouji had watched, and he thought nothing as the American was being killed. How unfortunate that the first death would be an American, he thought.

In politics, soldiers are merely assets, people who need to be killed labeled inhuman targets, every death in war and conflict thrown under the rug and defined only as a collective statistic. Not out of politicians thinking that way themselves, but rather because of the systematic regularities of such thought and science.

For Emerson to die, was not for Emerson to die. It was for an American soldier to die. That much Kouji had recognized as Emerson stopped grasping at the hands that had gone at his throat and instead wrapped one arm around the General's midsection and threw him off with a shift of his hips.

* * *

He was sent rolling on the ground in the opposite direction, my boot catching his sword before he could crawl back to it, I throwing my own outside of that circle with a clatter.

And all around me the people screamed of bread and circuses, of blood and crime in the name of entertainment.

To kill for your country is heroic.

To kill for yourself is murder.

To kill for entertainment is harmless.

Killing was harmless to these people.

"You fucking animals!" I yelled, standing up as General Foulke stood by, walking around me like a vulture around his kill as his men formed a shield outside of our little bubble of the arena. If the people wanted blood, more than the ones coming from out mouths, our noses, they would have blood as I picked up his sword and finally drew blood on myself, my left arm held high as I cut across the outer forearm in one stroke, no pain to be found as the crowd roared rapturously.

This was how people offered themselves to Emroy, to Rory, and offer myself I did.

"Such a great advocate for peace you are! Bronxon!"

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _(America) does not go abroad in search of monsters to destroy..._

 _John Quincy Adams, delivering an address on U.S. foreign policy, July 4, 1821_

* * *

Pina and Emperor Molt looked on surprised, leaning in from their podium, Foulke looking at me as if a mad man, taking the crimsoned blade and throwing it outside of the circle the same as his own.

His gray face had looked at it fly outside of any of our reach, the crowd in uproar.

Each hit. Each drop of blood. Each cardinal yell by each of us, it had gotten a rise out of the crowd.

"Retrieve my sword!" he yelled at his men with a wave, his main officer simply shooting a glance at the circle, the Legionnaires all standing their ground despite the yells of their commander. Frozen like statues on the bloodied sand of this area. Honor was a two way street, and yet he still claimed I was the one trespassing it as he had looked aghast at men that did not follow his word.

"My sword!" he continued to yell still, coming to the faces of his men, now not letting him escape as their shields made a wall.

"Stay!" Molt had gotten out of his seat to the edge of the stone rails of his observation post, Pina also looking in mortified, but intrigued. "Only one shall leave here!" his voice boomed across as the soldiers listened to their emperor.

"Peace?" I asked in my low voice, still hurting like hell from his thumbs, digging into my throat.

"I hardly see peace, written on your fingers, darkie. How selective you are, in the way you kill. You kill the honorable only, not the pitiful slaves or the heathens. Such a sympathizer."

"I'll show you peace, general."

The wound bled, but it did not kill. Didn't hit a vein, but it was leaking all the same as my left forearm was made a maroon, and I lost feeling in that appendage as the red got below my finger tips. I lost feeling in general as I, in a great angry stride walked toward the man who had been occupied and saw me too late.

My hands were in reaching distance of him again, but he had thrown his back to the shield wall, the soldiers naturally recoiling and pushing him back into me, my right arm taking the collar of his shirt and dragged him further in the momentum, left leg pushing into his legs in a forward sweep, throwing him off the ground as I pulled him over my back, onto his back in a clatter of cheer and cracking.

The hand that had touched him had thrown a streak of red on his clothes, over his face, as he was knocked nearly out by the throw alone, I reassuming that ever time-tested stance as I stood before him again.

The crowd screamed for one of our heads, I couldn't tell. But they threw roses, dried paint, gold coin, and their hearts at us in the name of war.

He had come forward in a punch, but I had directed it down as my two hands clasped and drew it down, only to barely avoid it as he sent it back up again almost into my chin.

He looked up to see if it followed through, but my hands had unlocked and rammed into his throat.

His midsection was open just long enough after the hit for me to bring up my right leg and impact his gut, he holding his stomach as he bent his head down.

So I had jumped, my body automatically having me twirl, my feet hitting his head twice over before I put myself on the ground, droplets flying as we painted the field.

My eyes had drawn down to that unfurled, thick rope that had been around my neck just moments before, its sides frayed. I picked it up before he could came at me with open hands, claws almost, as I whipped the rope across his head: his eyes.

The sound of a whip, hot as ashes, had ripped across his face as he fanned out to grab that rope that painted red across his face, but in doing so he had connected himself to it as I yanked him toward me, right into my locked elbow and fell to the ground.

Instinctively he rolled away before my foot could smash his skull, behind me.

Ruffling, one last gasp for carnage, I heard it above every other yell in that stadium as I turned around and sidestepped fast, catching a backup knife and his arm between my own left arm and the side of my body, he bent down in the stab, looking back up into my own eyes.

"This is **_American Peace_** , General." I said as I spoke my native tongue, and, just for that brief second, he knew I was one of the soldiers from the other side of the Gate. The "sorcery" I had being the one that had beat such a grand soldier such as him. And I saw fear in his pupils, disgust, regret: all the feelings of dead men walking being shared as I entertained a people who might've seen blood flowing through these mean capital streets if they did not do as we wanted.

My left arm clamped his appendage against my body as I again shifted one way, my other arm pushing his trapped arm the other way.

The knife had dropped, but only after I broke bone and forced it through his skin bloodily, he falling to the ground as I released him to an arm that was almost sheared off: his remaining arm clawing at exposed bone as I stomped on his ankle, his right leg splintering upward like a tree branch through his skirt and skin in the sound of squelching and one hard snap that seemed to stay the crowd and echo.

The cheers they had when Foulke's back hit the ground for the last time was also their own last statement of the engagement that it itself was not done.

Only one man was walking out, and it was very apparent who at that point as I straddled his stomach, brought my thumbs up, and dug into eyes clenched closed in pain.

* * *

General Foulke never had a last sight.

That's what Emperor Molt had deduced as he turned away as the man cried out in pain, the crowds that once only silenced at his presence when requested, now silenced by this one dark elven warrior, seemingly found by Pina and dragged to their home from the depths of the underworld.

Foulke squirmed, his open bones tearing more skin as the blood itself spurted with all the movement, his torso kept still as Emerson dug finger nails into his head and pushed down, head and fingernail grinding into the earth below.

"I see your combat training is in good hand, Pina."

Molt didn't even look at her daughter in the eyes as he and his cadre of servents and assistants followed him out, their faces greyed at what they saw. His plan today to simply watch what pale replacement for his lost army could do ruined… yet the hope, the plan, for perhaps this dark elf to train that army had risen.

"Why is he not dying?!" Pina had almost screamed, if not for the intervention of her palm. "Why is he doing this?!"

 _"There are fates worse than death, princess."_

If Foulke was going to be an example made of the arrogance of the Empire, facing a man from another world, albeit not one that the Imperials truly knew, he was going to be made THE example. For he was not killed outright as he cried for his mother, for mercy, and anyone who could possibly take the devil off of him as his ears droned out, his death fast approaching.

Foulke felt it, the grinding of Emerson's fingers in his skull like chalkboard against nail, his throat gurgling with blood as he screamed all he could; the final feelings that the man would have is of visceral pain and agony.

Foulke was not being killed, he was being made to suffer.

"A warning." the Japanese envoy said as the Rose Order looked on in horror, the crowds quickly filing out as their entertainment became realized for the first time as Emerson, hands bloody, had taken his hands out of the general's head, stood up, and in one final blow, stomped his jaw into his spine, it seemed, the final noise of the fight wiped out.

Emerson looked up at that observation deck, and Pina, for a reason that would never be able to be defined by her, knew that all that training, all the drills, the techniques of a fighting style meant for another world, knew she was looking at someone who had just been as human as her beneath the blood, the ears, the title, and who he called himself.

" ** _Pax Americana_**." she repeated the words on her tongue: words from an ancient Imperial language from the first days of the Empire, buried underneath time and scripture. "American peace is only possible when they are the only ones that remain, isn't it?"

Kouji, his eyes closed for the last minute, had still stood by Pina's side as he remembered a quote from the studies that both Pina and Bozes brought back. A quote from an unknown source, in an unknown corner of the world past the gate. He knew it was the same with the Empire, on why they had existed for so long, after so many conquests, so many conflicts.

Did I take a demon here? Pina thought; saw Emerson's fake ears point up as if horns as blood that was not his own dripped from his fingers.

But she held her tongue. They all did, as Foulke's troops all planted their shields in the dust, and bowed before the survivor as the crowd chanted his name:

 ** _Ave!_**

 ** _The Father of Sin!_**

* * *

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 _War does not determine who is right. Only who is left._

 _Unknown_

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 43_**

 ** _The Special Region – One night's travel to the Imperial Capital_**

* * *

"We leave you alone for a month and you end up killing one of their main military commanders? And not only that, you get away clean?"

Bannon had held my arm too as Masterson continued to run his thumb over the scar.

"Does this look clean to you, Cam?"

Masterson had been caught halfway through a word when Bannon had told him otherwise, he simply clicking his mouth closed and nodding, my two sergeants backing away from me as the parachutes were gathered.

I had flipped the Winchester that had done the killing on my behalf up in a well-practiced routine: that broke stock having been replaced by white.

"White…wood?"

I still gagged as I shook my head at Masterson's observation of the new stock. "It's… ah, well, some of General Foulke's spinal cord and his sternum."

My two sergeants blanked on me as they saw it was not only the texture of bone, but it had also been engraved. I thumbed back to Pina. "Her insistence."

"That's some fucked up shit." Masterson had said as he had asked for it, laying his hand out, I gladly giving it over to him.

"Sergeant Bannon?" I asked as I had slid my gauntlet over my scar, covering it: a problem to deal with later.

"Yes sir?" she said as the Chinook's gusts of wind slowly kicked their way nearer.

"I'm in need of your expertise, when we get to the Capital."

"And what is my expertise, sir?" she asked.

"Property value, of course."


	21. 2-3: She's Too Innocent

A/N: Hey, someone asked Kay a question. What's your answer captain?

E: I'm not a religious man, Captain Hoffman. But this is just me speaking broadly. What I believe: my morals. Not as a distinctly Christian man, but a man who believes of some spiritual dues; the soul and what not. And in regards to that, as much as a hypocrite it makes me, I think killing is a sin, and it crawls all over me, nowadays. Justified killing, killing without remorse, or excuse. Whatever the case. In some way, some shape or form, killing is usually a sin to me. Even justified killings, when someone doesn't deserve to live anymore, to live on this planet with us... I know it has to happen but... Christ, this is hard.

I want to see my family again, the people I love. I don't give a fuck about this question, my belief, when I'm in combat, but looking back... that's when I tell myself it's bad. My justification...

I'll do what I must, and however you judge me, just understand what I've been through, and what it means for me to hold onto that belief, alright? Thanks.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-3**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 43**_

 _ **The Special Region – One night's travel to the Imperial Capital**_

* * *

The chopper had come down slowly, it's boot open, Masterson using it as an opportunity to throw the JSDF lieutenant's helmet to him, the man catching it with little argument as the horses in the back had stirred themselves up.

Hamilton had gone back to settle them as Hitman had made a perimeter around the LZ.

I saw the red dot that had been the JSDF signifier that this was one of their Chinooks, the camouflage pattern a stark contrast to our own Black Hawk's onyx or the sheet metal grey of our own Chinooks. It was the first modern machine I had seen in a month, and it was a damned good example as it had touched ground and I cocked my hands on my hips, greeting a smiling Itami.

"Youji!" I yelled out as I spread my arms. "Welcome to my world!"

"Dammit Kay! You look like you've defected!" he yelled out above the noise as he waltzed on the ramp, his squad all rising promptly and shuffling out as well, cargo and crates in tow.

The handshake had been rough, but it was needed in my opinion. I had been hard pressed for a hug and handshake for a month, and he had delivered that after I slapped his helmet back on.

"You crazy SOBs fly. I'd almost take you for heroes in manga. Fucking Super Sentais or Kamen Riders." he had grinned at me as he had readied his rifle and walked out of the Chinook, the cargo being quickly unloaded, Itami giving the A-okay and the giant machine beast taking off as soon as it had landed: leaving a quiet clearing of soldiers, supplies, and royals.

"I put on my super suit every morning I'm a Ranger, Lieutenant Itami." Black had said in his Boston accent. " _Hooah_." he ended.

" _Hooah_." My squad had responded in return.

"My kids behave Itami? Bannon?" I turned to the two people in particular. How old I tried t o talk, even at my age of 25. It felt odd, and yet… I missed my soldiers.

Masterson gave me a reason as he had taken a box out of his plate carrier: a wooden affair about two magazines wide. Wrapped it closed was a blue ribbon, a card also trapped underneath that.

He offered it to me as I looked on in confusion, Pina tilting her head on her palm as she knew what a gift, an offering, looked like.

"I picked this up when we went back to Ginza with her and the refugees. I figured it for your birthday gift, but seeing as I wasn't exactly sure you'd survive this long… on behalf of Hitman. Your loyal B Platoon…"

I opened up the card: a recording of the squad imbued in a birthday oriented design that told me I was twenty six years old according to the picture of the cake on it next to all of their signatures.

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Happy Birthday to You**_

 _ **As sung by Hitman Squad, First Lieutenant Itami, Lelei La Lalena, Rory Mercury, and Chuka Luna Marceau**_

 _Happy Birthday to you,_

 _Happy Birthday to you._

 _Happy Birthday dear Kristian_

 _Happy Birthday to you._

 _How fucked are now?_

 _How fucked are you now?_

 _How fuucccked are you now?_

 ** _You're surely fucked now._**

* * *

Suffice to say I heard Bannon's distinctive voice in it, and I had given her an odd look at the thought of her singing as I felt heat rise to my cheeks, she herself putting on a warm smile as she turned away and used hand signals to keep the squad at their perimeter positions. They were rather happy, seeing as their current mission with RCT3 was to attend a garden party.

Not many military men and women could say they could do that. Nor could many such people say that they had killed dragons, slept in a castle hosted by a child lordess, been introduced to actual magic, and have their commanding officer be an "elf".

Perfectly reasonable bullet points of this world gone mad. They didn't fight it.

All things considered I was in command of a bunch of dorks. A bunch of Ranger tab wearing, killing, dorks.

"See, you've got a beautiful voice Lisa." Cam had said as I had closed the card and put it in my returned pack. "Captain likes it... so do I of course."

All she did was shake her head, blushing, and shrug as she toyed with the safety and optics on her M16, waving hello at the two royals, Bannon curtly nodding at Pina as she returned it.

Itami had urged me on as I realized his voice had also been in that chorus, he having been the only one to have sung that last line, motioning to the box.

Finally opening it a rich woody smell had hit my nostrils before I had realized what had been inside that box. Torpedo shaped, brown, a gold and white ribbon across the stub.

Kurokawa and Doc had looked at me both fancifully in a wink, they both knowing better, but they couldn't tell me otherwise what to do with my early birthday present.

"H. Upmann Number Two Cigars. Twenty five pieces. Three hundred and fifty United States Dollars." Itami had explained as he had taken his knife and cut off the tip of one with his combat knife, offering it back to me as I closed the box of cigars: a stupid look on my face, I imagined.

"President Kennedy's favorite brand, captain." As said Nutt, and his ever knowledgeable self.

Masterson had passed me a lighter as I realized I was being treated like a baby, all things considered, and Pina and Hamilton had only respectfully looked on as I had been the focus of the reunion. Not that I would have any of it: the pampering, of them being ignored.

I stopped just short of lighting the stick for myself before I had shut the Zippo closed and shared a gaze with Pina.

She asked, earlier, what she had seen me smoking from: that electric cigar I had been without for the last month. It hurt, having to leave it, but seemingly just talking about it calmed my nerves as I told her it was nothing but tobacco, really. Something even her Empire had been using in equal measure to our world.

I took the Cigar out between my teeth as I had wiped it crudely with the cape I had: this one of the Rose Order as opposed to what had been awarded to me from Foulke's corpse.

"On my behalf, Princess. For allowing me to be your guest."

She had looked shocked at me, but not ungracious as she had gingerly took the brown roll and put it in between her lips as if she knew what she was doing. She wasn't a smoker, but then again, most smokers were, at some point in their lives.

Her mystification with the Zippo had ceased once the tip was lit, and the first puff was had in a series of coughing and hacking.

"Dammit Kay! Hyuck huck huck-! You try to kill me with beating me up! Now you try to kill me with poison!"

* * *

Festivities and reunion asides, they had work to do, and after Emerson had taken back Pina's cigar after she had declined after a few puffs, Emerson sticking the burning step up from his electronic vice between his teeth, he had ran through the supply manifest with the supply officer.

"Tetsuo eh? I think I heard of you." Emerson had said as he flipped through the papers attached to the clipboard, looking over the American and Japanese diplomatic provisions as Masterson had directed the cargo into the wagons as only a cowboy like him would know, Itami and Bannon by his side.

"Oh yeah?" the Foreign Affairs officer had asked.

"Yeah. One of the letters from that Navy Lieutenant Commander mentioned you were going to be handling his supplies on this mission."

"Lieutenant Commander Blackburn?" he responded.

Emerson had been getting correspondence back and forth from Italica, courtesy of the Rose Order operation happening there, they wanting to keep the diplomatic line open from Arnus and Italica to their peace talks behind the scenes in the Capital. The old man, Grey, had gone down there too, leaving Emerson and Pina to slowly shift War Hawks and the neutral to the preferable side.

Emerson, having come out of that arena as a known gladiator, had considerable sway now.

So much so that the meeting with Cicero had gone… differently than anticipated.

"Yeah." Emerson had answered back as he had seen the various food stuff meant for a dinner party tomorrow with various senators on the outskirts of the Capital. "Ramirez knew the name in Korea," he thumbed to the gruff sergeant, hauling a freezer of ice cream into one of the wagons. "One highest ranking American officers to survive in Seoul when it fell during the War… That the type of people we bringing in now?"

Bannon had shrugged. "Civilian contractors too."

Itami had been quick to add on. "We have several FOBs now in this world; on Roche Hill, Kowan Forest namely. Coda Village has become the site of the MP Patrol Base, that's jointly operated. Need a lot of manpower to keep them running."

Emerson raised his eyes as he scratched behind his ears, the stitching rather old now to the tips. "Any problems?"

"Eh," Bannon had sighed, a hidden tiredness that both she and Masterson had hid now shown to Emerson. "Few of the civilians, fundamentalists, think they know better. Found a few of 'em trying to teach the locals a few things we'd like for them to be without for the meanwhile."

"Things like what?"

"Our religions," she looped her finger around the small silver chain necklace that had held a tiny sliver cross around her neck, reflectively looking at it. "Certain aspects of culture, racial and social prejudices and ethnocentricities. You know, "Never trust a Chinaman, hide your gold from the Jews." Things like that."

Itami had nodded. "Few of the women have taken to dressing like anime characters…" Emerson saw through the more amiable aspects of this culture clash, glaring at Itami. "And are now forming prejudices against Jews and Chinese people while thinking that there's another God out there by the name of Jesus Christ… Always troubling. They think we know better."

"How bad is this a problem?"

"In terms of religion and the ethnocentric views which have been spreading around, we've had to strap on tracking collars on the civilians and contractors. Even the Red Cross personnel. Those who didn't want to work with such conditions we had to boot out." Itami answered.

Emerson's nose flared as he heard the measures. "Really? Collars?"

Itami himself shrugged, rubbing his neck. "Glorified dog collars really, if they wander outside of any of the facilities or bases without permission triggers an alert to the MPs and what not."

"…That's North Korean operating procedure." Emerson had furrowed his eyebrows, remembering that this had been one of the regime's last tactics in corralling their own civilians, replicated in the Middle East by ISIS with explosive collars earlier in the century.

"Hazama's call." Bannon relented.

"Any contractor who volunteers, _and you have to volunteer_ , to come over here, there's a certain set of rules they agree to considering how sensitive this world is to outside influence. Collars or bracelets are one of the terms." Itami had justified, his thumb and index finger wagging at Emerson slightly, as if he believed the shit that was coming out of his mouth. "To these people, every single one of us, every one of our modern marvels, they're holy. And everyone wants to play god. For their own protection, you know?"

Emerson had swallowed hard at that realization. Some had considered him Rory's replacement in full seriosity. To him, it made sense, speaking like that. Not only that, she had given him her blessings to do so. Him, Bannon, and Masterson.

"The Abrams tanks outside of Italica are something of a pilgrimage location, a place of worship, to the residents of the Corridor. We're walking on dangerous ground, now. So much so that we've had to get Marine fireteams on station to keep them safe." Bannon reported plainly, her voice unchanged since Emerson had last heard it: apathetic, grating, in its tone.

She had kept a lot from her captain, her conniving behind the scenes with Lelei and Masterson, the son of lawmen helping her and Lelei get some rather "opportunistic" contracts out regarding leases in the Corridor. Fact of the matter her cover was Lelei herself, she more than happy to take the blame given her immunity, her helpfulness to the Special Task Force. It generated revenue for Italica, both to Myui and Lelei's delight, and such funds were needed in its rebuilding. The rest, a marginal percentage, one that Lelei had assured the two sergeants no one would notice, would be put into a holding account in her name which gradually drained into a conversion process into Japanese yen: as was one of the processes the Japanese had inducted to connect the Special Region economically to their world.

In exchange, Lelei had taken Bannon as her mother in some ways. Although not outright stated between the two, Bannon wouldn't argue against it, if that became the case. She was a mother with connections, after all.

"…Hazama's call?" Emerson asked the two Japanese before him.

They nodded, Itami responding solemnly. "Hazama's call."

Emerson flipped through the rest of the shipment tiredly, out of the corner of his eye he had seen Doc and Pina lightly chatting as they observed the loading.

He had shook his head mentally at the thought of Pina being smitten with Doc, but he had no such care for it, within reason. That trade of thought had led him to the one disciplinary action he had to take recently.

"Sergeant Bannon?"

"Yes sir?"

"Did Private Harris observe the proper disciplinary punishment as designated by me?"

She tightened her jaw as she squared away her shoulders, nodding sharply. "Yes sir. He was sweeping sunshine off of Myui's balconies from dusk till dawn when not on duty."

"Good. Colonel Pierce and Master Sergeant Freeman says my Power Point on fraternization with the locals is now required viewing material for the Special Task Force." he said promptly, clearing his throat as he handed back the manifest to Tetsuo. "Looks like this is in order. Enough to set up shop and get that party going."

The man had nodded slowly as he had straightened out the list, licking his lips, deicing whether or not to ask a question. Emerson curled his lips up, egging the man on.

"If I can ask. What were the diplomatic provisions originally provided to you by Lieutenant Commander Blackburn when you first came here, Captain Emerson?"

Emerson had opened his mouth in an ah and a nod as he remembered.

Cicero, during our private talks with him, the man first threatening to both imprison me and Kouji while ousting the Imperial Princess once he had realized who we truly were, had calmed down once we had given over the information that his nephew was one of the Imperial POWs in Japan.

This wasn't before Kouji had offered the fruits of the modern Japanese world as something of a sampler platter to him:

A katana, sheened to be nearly as bright as the sun. Glossy fabrics and silks yet to be seen in this world. Pottery and silverware from artisans. Even a pen Pina had personally turned her nose up at.

Those objects had amazed Cicero, the man noting that Japan must've been a land of great craftsman and artists.

However, having been before the reveal of the nature of Japan and America to the Empire and its guests, he had asked for Emerson's nation and if he had anything to display. Word from the mouth of the Empire, and indeed the streets, as said Seyton and Samnu when they hadn't been lounging in the sun on Sadera Hill, was that the Father of Sin's country was full of people like him… How great it must've been, supposedly, it was on the lips of every person who had heard of Emerson's, or rather, Kay Ro Bronxon's, exploits in the arena.

It was on Lord Cicero's lips too, cutting off Kouji's description of Japan as Emerson had reluctantly carted his own platter over:

It wasn't as flashy, or as intrinsically soulful as Japan's examples, but it was distinctly an American thing.

The Stars and Stripes, folded into a triangle neatly, a picture of it fully unfurled resting before it. A pair of cowboy boots, the leather seemingly peeled fresh from a bison, and stitching as deep and as artisan as any cowboy could've hoped for during the Old West. A black and orange Gibson guitar, polished and strings tuned tight. A pair of Jeans from the OG company itself, Levi's. Navajo Pottery, the distinctive warm colors of a desert and plains in their design. And perhaps, most importantly of all, translated into the Lingua Franca, America's defining historical documents.

The Bill of Rights. The Emancipation Proclamation. The Constitution. The Articles of Confederation. The Declaration of Independence.

Emerson didn't know if Cicero had looked at them though, as he had gotten on his knees, held his hand, and kissed it and begged for America's help against the enemy on Arnus Hill.

That was when Emerson and Kouji had to spill the beans.

And so Emerson told Tetsuo what he had brought, and, after a few moments of nodding and silent contemplation, he had gone off to talk to the princess.

Itami had poked at the bone of Emerson's Winchester as he got out of earshot. "Didn't get in trouble with using that?"

Emerson had tried to forget he had the weapon in general, he shaking his belt and getting it tight again, the leather holster holding that damned gun.

"When Emperor Molt let me personally inspect the Imperial Army Officer Corp, the R&D facilities and mages, plus a few training grounds, I had a few people ask about it. A weapon can only mean so much, and people assume it's a magically imbued device."

"Magic is always a nice way to explain things people don't understand, eh?" Itami had rubbed his arms together in the darkening, cooling day.

"All they know is that they don't want to be at the receiving end of this thing. That and Emperor Molt wants me to help train and plan a war against the "monsters on Arnus Hill"."

"You're that deep?" Bannon had asked, surprised.

"He thinks, and anyone who doesn't know the truth as well, that America is part of this world, and will suffer if the JSDF continues pushing outward from Arnus and over the mountains here."

"They think you have a vested security interest in the future."

Emerson shook his head, running his scarred hand over his face. He'd been stalling giving into the emperor's request for days now, and he would have to give eventually if the truth was not revealed. It tore away at him, but he figured he could disappear fast enough, if needed. Not that he imagined that would be needed: taking a page out of Itami's book.

He got off the topic. "What'd you do with Chuka?"

Itami had looked up into that orange sky as Bannon herself shuffled uncomfortably. She had naturally talked to Chuka a lot, given the fact she was leasing land to refugees through her. Her problem was evident even to her. And she had pitied the elf. After saluting the two officers off she had walked over to a few of the horses that were without a cart. She didn't need to hear this.

"I left her alone." Itami had simply said as he drew a cigarette, Emerson touching the tip of his cigar with the smaller stick to light it for him. "…thanks. And yeah. For now, I've let her keep her ignorance."

The two had shared a blow silently as they mulled over that choice, grey clouds going above them.

"Not what I would've done, Youji." the American captain had let out, taking the cigar out of his mouth, looking at it wearily.

The Japanese lieutenant had done the same with his cigarette before putting it back into his mouth. "Oh yeah? What would've you done?"

Emerson winced, a little bit of accusing in Itami's retort. "I don't know… but, it's not that."

"You know better than me, what losing a family will do to a person." again, Emerson winced. Tracey had been becoming less of a human and more of an excuse; a reason, nowadays. It had made his superior officer sick to his stomach, thinking of him like that.

"Well- I don't know. Why lie to her? What good will lying to not only her, but yourself, do?"

Suck. Blow. Repeat.

" _I don't want to see her end up like Tracey._ " Itami had said quietly, pleading to god in his voice. "She's too innocent for that."

"War ages us all, Youji."

"But she didn't lose her father, her village to war. Just some freak accident."

"She'll face the music someday. We all do."

"Kay…"

And the two officers had shared a gaze, an inherently old gaze: Where both of them knew better, and yet none did the better. One out of ignorance. One out of not wanting to meet finality.

"You care about her, don't you?" Emerson said lowly, breaking the gaze as the crates were slowly hauled up into the wagons, food from both countries meant for such parties abundant alongside equipment and provisions meant to sustain both RCT3 and Hitman for an elongated bout in the capital.

Itami wrinkled his nose, eyes darting to the corners of his sockets, looking down on the ground. "I suppose I believe it myself, when she calls me father…" he barely admitted.

A pat on his arm, and the hand stayed on his shoulder.

"You'd make a great father… just not now, Youji. Not with her."

"Well, I'm getting old."

"Pssssh. My parents had me when they were forty. You got time."

And that was the end of that conversation as Pina and Doc had walked over, Pina looking over Itami expectantly. "Princess." Itami greeted.

"Itami." she responded back. "Normally I wouldn't be out here, but I do remember that I am due a personal package from my Rose Order via you."

The man had blanked as he dropped his cigarette and put it to the ground, rubbing it out with his heel. "Excuse me?"

"You know….. It might have something to do with Risa?" she urged on as Emerson raised an eyebrow at his mentee. "Her expertise maybe?"

The realization had hit Emerson almost as hard as Zorzal's sword had, but he had stifled a laugh as Itami still continued to blank on what she was asking for. Her begging had gotten more desperate before she had grabbed onto Itami's bag straps and brought him down to her level, pleading for him to understand without her outright saying it.

Emerson had mercy. "She means the yaoi."

Itami's clairvoyance had made his eyes pop as he had known exactly what she had been trying to get out of him. "Oh yeah… Kay, in my pack, front compartment."

Emerson had gone to it before Pina could protest, the man unzipping the bag and seeing one of Risa's most recent edition. Apparently she had been listening to Masterson's tales.

Once again, he had held it above his apprentice's head as he had ran through it real quick, amusing her as she grew even more desperate.

For what reason the captain wouldn't know until a paper had fallen out and landed on his face.

* * *

"Oh yeah, that's Mitch's handwriting." I had let out as the princess had sat down on a rock, ashamed, the cargo all having been put into the wagons, Hamilton crossing her arms as she had a page of the hidden documents inside of this doujin that had come from Italica: it translated in the lingua franca.

I had called over Nutt when I realized what it was, the man confirming it as he had saw every detail being correct and inline. A timeline: bullet pointed history of everything after Nutt had stopped at during our visit to Japan a month ago.

Its handwriting had been Bozes', and it spoke spades of our world.

Curiosity killed the cat.

But naturally, that curiosity led that kitty to the tale of what path the world had trodden since 2015, to have bred soldiers like me.

The documents were intercepted however, amazingly, by Mitch. And he had let them know he had caught them red handed, and let it go through still: the only thing he having done to these papers was his signature on the very last page, underneath the bios of the major players of RCT3 and Hitman.

" _Better luck next time._ " was what he had written with his name. Taunting them.

"A good teacher always leaves his student wanting more, I guess." Nutt had blown out as he had ran his hand through his beard. "I would applaud you princess… but…" he waited for me to say something as I ran my eyes over the bio Bozes had half copied from Wikipedia, half got from other sources.

"Know your enemy." Pina had said, bringing me out of the words, using my lessons against me. I smiled for but a second. "Know their history."

I fold the papers in half before handing it to her. If Mitch thought it was okay for her to have hands on, I couldn't disagree. "All you needed to do was ask, princess."

She saw the grit in my words, my two sergeants behind me, giving her glares of mistrust, betrayal.

It was in my eyes now too, as she had avoided it, looking to the ground after taking the papers back.

"We have fought our bloodiest wars in history, in these last thirty years, princess." Masterson had said, stern in his disposition. "If our word is not enough, then there you go."

We wanted an explanation, something more, so we stood there, looking at this princess as she tried to smuggle our history underneath our noses, RCT3 looking on in the background.

"I just don't understand…" she started.

"Understand what?" Bannon asked in turn.

"What kind of people can wage war as you do. I don't believe that you are the type of people that can."

She believed in us not as soldiers, but as decent people. People who couldn't glass an entire region, make mountains implode with rods from god, and kill entire cultures all in the name of peace and war. What kind of human race could not only survive so many genocides, holocausts, empires, and wars, but also perform those things on such a historically stable time scale?

The people did not scare her. It was the idea of the people on the otherside of the Gate: their prosperity and power on top of carnage that would've splintered her own empire apart if they were subjected to it.

"A people without a choice." Masterson defended.

" _ **There's always a choice.**_ " her voice quivered.

There was. We knew there was. We made the one we had made, and damned all the rest however, time and time again.

She was scarred we would make that choice here, and this, she wanted to know of the most recent time we did it.

And as she unfolded those pages and saw the story of Operation Open Wind, the Korean War, and America's place in the world nowadays, she felt justified as I simply shook my head and twirled my hand in the air, telling my troopers to embark.

* * *

Masterson had been impressed with me as I had whistled, a white horse having come to me and I having clambered on top of it with ease, Bannon and him taking a few of the standalone mounts for themselves as I led the convoy back to where we were staying: the pond side Imperial Gardens where the last of the secret meetings were to take place to seal the deal.

Cicero had swayed a lot of War Hawks to attend. Then again, the mentioning of my name had been a good encouragement to those senators.

The slow trod this horse drawn convoy was going on had been quiet as Pina and her order were in the trail position, a quiet, homely pace. The noise had been quiet enough for quiet conversation to take place after Hitman had donned the cloaks I had prepared for them: ponchos designed to conceal all but their faces, the red and black design on it signifying them as my own, concealing the gear underneath.

Whenever they walked, they would look like spectres, ghosts, mysterious servants that answered to me, to those who did not know.

"You adjusted quick, didn't ya?" Masterson had asked as he had held the reins lightly, the horse obeying him, almost recognizing his experience with horse riding on the other side.

I shrugged as I continued to smoke, my fingers brushing on the tips of my ears, still rather uncomfortable with them. "You know I'm a fast learner."

"… So you and the Japanese envoy know the Empire pretty well?" he continued to poke.

"Better than she does America." I pointed my thumb back in the general direction of behind. "I know the people, who they are, what they think… I think. I... saw a few things, over there I'll have to talk to you about later."

"Hrm. Alright... Anyway, they really don't care much for the war?" Masterson had referred to one of my earlier letters, and how I drew reference to an America so long ago: not really caring for the wars we waged overseas minus thirty seconds on the evening news.

It was the same here. Even with the Empire's censorship of the dramatic losses and the actual gains of the Special Task Force.

Hell, they didn't even accept that Italica had "fallen".

"Their emperor keeps them entertained, distracted. If they really knew how we were doing like Pina and her Order does… well, I'm sure the Capital would be in chaos." My answer had been short and concise, not wanting to imagine what that giant capital would be like when thrown into chaos on the scale of Tehran or Baghdad when America had rolled in with their coalitions.

How many slaves would revolt, how many massacres on the street, how much blood would run through the cobblestone… I suppose that would be as good as a reason to pursue peace as any.

"How about the slaves, captain?" Bannon asked.

I ruffled uncomfortably as I adjusted the saddle, trying to remember how many caravans like this had come in and out of Akusho with slaves tied to carts, walking all the way from wherever they were with bleeding soles.

"Captain?" Bannon had brought me out of my recollections as I simply huffed.

"Slavery makes up one of the many pillars of Imperial society, unfortunately. If we do anything to start getting rid of that system, even buying out the freedom of slaves, and you can't do that, I've talked to Pierce about it, it'll start to upset the Imperials. Even Pina."

"Why? Fuck what she says." Masterson had said brashly, but I still heard his words.

"Cam." I started as I had slowed my horse down still, bringing it next to his: in between my two sergeants. "This empire is one of slavery and conquest. It will cave in on itself if its main workforce finds out that a power such as us will guarantee their freedom, and will fight and kill for it. We can't hold peace talks with a nation that is going to decimate itself from the inside out."

"Then at least tell me we're gonna do something about it in the future." he pleaded as some of the first squad peered out of the wagon.

"We've acknowledged slavery is happening, at least on this side of the Gate. Word gets out on the otherside of the Gate, we'll have a human rights shit storm on our hands. All I can say is that Pierce and Hazama are putting together plans to ease the empire out of this during the peace talks. Historically it was technology and new methods to production that eased out slavery, remember? Not like the Corridor has any slavery happening in it, right?"

He tightened is lips at me and shook his head. "Don't make me feel any better about it sir."

"The worst offenders will be the traders, those who are selling children and adolescents. Sex slavers too. We'll hold them accountable. Same as the emperor. You read 2-1 Actual?"

He shook his head slowly, but he had given up his protest. "Fine. Fine. I trust you Kay."

"Just give it time." I knew his rage. I really did, but any incoherent thought I had of going into those slave markets and killing every single trader there had gone against everything I knew as right and actually actionable. I would be a murderer… then again.

"Father of Sin." I looked back at the wagon. Peters had said it as he had slowly ran his hand through Khan's fur, the dog sleeping soundly in the ride. "Why?"

"Because he owned his sin." Hamilton's armored horse had caught up to us behind us, she supposedly checking up on us.

I kept quiet as the wagon's cloth opened up and Bannon's squad looked at her. "Owning his sin?" one of them asked. "Hell. On the battlefield I'm a lord of death too, but ain't none of the locals calling me the Devil, of all things. Not even that sap Wilbur!"

She shook her head as she looked at me, the two of us exchanging glances. She never was able to beat me during training.

"During that day of combat, Emerson refused to kill, even in the circumstance where it would've been easy to just do it." she looked at me again, expecting me to chime in. I kept my silence. "Against slaves, the common people, he did not kill. He spared them. Held back the kill from them."

Anyone could kill slaves, or go on that arena and draw blood. It was what was expected in that sport. I suppose the people were impressed that I had won that little war of mine without drawing blood until I needed to. Until I absolutely needed to.

That is what she meant when she said I was the owner, the father, of the sin. My squad had understood it.

She had chuckled as she turned her horse back to rejoin her princess. "…and he was the one who said killing was a sin."

Black had laughed himself as she got out of eyesight, pulling the charging handle back on his M21 and clearing the round. "I consider it more of an art, than a sin."

Bannon had looked back to her designated marksman with a raised eyebrow, more specifically the eyebrow over her faded eye. "Really now, Private Black?"

"Eh. Gotta give us some credit, don't you think? I gotta be proud of what I do, right?"

A few of the squad had to agree, and to be honest, so did I.

"I joined the Rangers because I was proud of being in the military. Proud of myself ersumshit." he continued. "If I'm proud of my job, I have to be proud of what I do with it. Right or wrong."

I wanted to ask the designated marksman if he was proud of Italica, of all those he had killed. But that was unfair. I had no right to pose such existential question to my own men.

"Fair enough, Private Black. I'll be sure to visit you in the loony bin in a few years." Masterson's agreement had gotten a few laughs out of the squad, a short discussion of which one of us would be going to the looney bin eventually. As was the case however, as proposed by Nutt, if one of us went, we'd all be going.

"Good answer." I said. "… How are things going back at the Corridor anyway for you guys?"

Nutt had answered first as he had unloaded his M4 and put it around his back, pulling out that pad of notes meant for our little documentary. "Boring, to be honest. Marines are handling a lot of the patrols between Italica and the rest of the JSDF bases. Chow hall is getting boring and I think one of the Marines stole my sandals, no comment on that though."

"Yeah? What are the rest of you guys doing?"

"I'm gaining a lot of teaching experience." Nutt raised his hand again. "Plus the documentary is coming along rather well. I think it's about three days long now, right Black?"

"Yeah."

Loke came next. "I babysit kids."

"Teaching them how to play college ball." Harris.

"Me and Sergeant Masterson train the MPs how to use their rifles." Black had reloaded his M21 as he said it, laying the gun on the edge of the wagon outward, as if expecting something. "Do have to say, they're alright."

"How about you Bannon? Peters?"

"Nothing, really. Paperwork I guess. Keeping everyone in order."

Peters had rubbed between Khan's black furred ears. "A few of us take to the immigration checkpoints on the Corridor. Khan sniffs down new arrivals for anything funny. Not too eventful. Personally I'm glad that we're back out on the field. Hooah?"

"Hooah." the Hitmen in earshot had answered, even me.

"Talk to any of the girls?" Hitman had known who I meant. "Keep 'em busy?"

"Me and Sergeant Bannon have tea with Chuka and Lelei on Saturdays… or at least, the equivalent of Saturday over here." Loke had said uneasily. "Lelei seems to have taken a liking to Sergeant Bannon, isn't that right?"

Bannon smirked. "Eh."

"Rory is a fine MP commander. Gives her purpose around Italica and Arnus. Told me and Itami otherwise she would've gone off roaming again. Says she enjoys our company and what not." Black responded.

"You guys give her company?" I asked curiously.

The entire wagon had shuffled uncomfortably. "Not like we got a choice." one of them said.

"I mean. Yeah, she's a nice gal and all, but fuck, she doesn't strike me as the sort I would like to share a drink with. That and the Apostle bit… and the axe." Harris had let out.

"So she still… drawn to us Americans?" I continued.

"Ah, a bit. But she has a bit more self-control, I think… more control than Chuka, that is." he answered slowly.

Bannon had grunted to get my attention as we continued down this dirt path, one hood at a time. "I've assigned, or rather I did assign, one of the men to her each day and night. Keep her under observation. I know Doc and Sergeant Kurokawa tells us not to interfere, but she's gonna hurt herself one of these days if she keeps going out at night and training."

"Training?"

Masterson had chimed as he looked behind us, checking on the caravan. "Training like us. Caught her about two weeks after you left watching us do PT and sparring. Been emulating us with dragon corpses… tearing her damn knuckles to shreds. **_That girl ain't right_**."

* * *

"You wonder what Chuka is going to do with us gone? Lieutenant Itami?" Doc had ridden with one of the back cars with some of Hitman and RCT3, Pina and Itami among them, rose petals flying overhead as they were half way to their destination. One of his arms had been wrapped around his own medical supplies, and it had been a rather large assortment. Enough to start up his own clinic with Kurokawa if needed.

Itami had pondered the question as he idly stared out the back and the small particles of dusts the wagons had kicked up in their wake. "Well, I thought you guys would already consider that question."

Kurokawa had been in there too and the two combat medics had nodded. "We told our shift replacements and the Red Cross personnel to supply her with bandages and wrist bindings as needed. But outside of that… We're doing nothing sir."

"Just as I ordered…" Itami reaffirmed.

And the two medics had left it at that. He was a superior officer and they had their orders regarding Chuka. Still, "Do no evil" had still been their mantra, even if it went against direct orders.

"Emerson is barely older than me…" Pina's words had made the trailing wagon look at Pina as she was face first in her smuggled documents. "Only five years or so…"

"Is there something wrong with that, princess?" Doc had asked, looking at a translated bio of his captain, along with Masterson, Bannon, and Itami. It was rather extensive for what it was.

"He seems so old for what he is doing."

"Same could be said for you, princess."

"But according to this, wasn't there a period of conscription in your world? Where eighteen year olds were called up in America and her allies to invade a nation called Iran?" The Americans in the wagon had greyed. Ramirez also there as, unknowing to him, a snarl had formed on his face. "Isn't eighteen the right age for any person to go to war? Seeing as it is when countries call on them?"

Doc was going to say something regarding how biologically, he would prefer if his outfit was full of mid twenty year olds or early thirties, but as cold as that was, Ramirez had a better answer as he stirred awake.

"Princess…" he rumbled awake as Itami looked on. Asides from Pops, Ramirez had been the oldest man between RCT3 and Hitman. "I know we haven't talked, my name is Sergeant George Ramirez, and I am honored to be working with you… however." he pointed toward the papers. "Those papers right there, whatever history you have on them, are only words. They don't describe the emotions of people who lived in that history. There's a difference between history as it is written, and history as it was."

"Sergeant Ramirez?" she tried his name on her tongue as Doc and Kurokawa leaned back, uncomfortably.

"I was thirty eight when I was part of the invasion of Iran." Pina had blinked at him before she realized what he said. He was a part of history, as she was holding it. "I didn't want no eighteen year old to go through what happened over there."

Ramirez had been a Lifer, a man who didn't want to leave the military, even with a wife and child back home in California. After seeing what he had in Iran, it was understandable. Many, many kids had shared the same sights with him during Operation Open Wind, years ago.

"Eighteen years old…" he spited. "Your life is just beginning, you're a young man, a woman, or whatever. Hopes, dreams, aspirations, all thrown away once you go to war at that tender age where you finally start to think for yourself, and see the world for the first time truly… For your first sight to be of war. A horrible war.

All those kids that went to hell with me, and came back, they are as old as me now. Not in age, oh no. That'd be letting them off easy, but in heart and soul."

"What did you do in that war?" Pina had asked, her rudimentary knowledge of Operation Open Wind thinking it a simple ordeal.

"Heh…" he looked over to Itami, almost cruelly. "You're a lucky man, Itami. Those three refugees? Yeah… those three refugees." he made motions with his hands as he remembered. For him, Korea was a blur, he had long dehumanized the North Koreans, didn't have a problem going to an armory, picking up an LSAT LMG and mowing down hundreds of them. But in Iran it was a different story. America and her Coalition of the Damned were the invaders."

* * *

 _We were holding just behind a phase line, me and my old Ranger Battalion, as we waited for orders to move into this city a few clicks from Tehran. By that time we'd been at war for months and it left me with only the drafted kids in my company. Now I protected them, really did… So we waited just behind this phase line, and held our fire, even as we saw little blips come from the windows in the distance: enemy fire. They didn't hit shit, and we were told to wait on the fire from the weapon satellites. Eventually we linked up with this company of Marines. Another detachment from an MEU._

 _Anyway, we were holding in place for a few hours, waiting on the assault on Tehran to start so we could synchronize the assault on this city: Apparently Iran had some of its nuclear scientists in town and we had to nab them._

 _Naturally a few of the civilians in the town had gotten wind that the Americans were outside and were coming to "save them". Some of them jumped the gun._

 _Was looking over the sand berm, out in the distance, city wasn't more than kilometer, kilometer and a half away. Saw three dots. Silhouettes really. Squinted my eyes and eventually just got my optics out and saw three people. Mother and her two kids._

 _By god, her blue dress was beautiful. Couldn't tell if her fabric was waving up and down because of the heat distortions or what, but she was holding one child in her arms, while another was running just behind her. Oldest was five, other was an infant. That's what I saw as I looked out… all I can distinctly remember is her dress, just, waving in the Iranian wind. She was floating over the desert almost, away from this embattled city._

 _That's when they started opening fire on her for running away._

 _Thankfully the Iranians couldn't hit shit, but still, even they get lucky._

 _So some of our snipers, the guns on the tanks, open up, giving her covering fire once we realized what was happening. COs didn't stop us. We're putting fire on the enemy positions, keeping her covered as we're all yelling at her to keep running._

 _And here I was thinking, hey, the one good thing I'm gonna see today: We're gonna save this mother and her children._

 _Then…_

 _Well. Yeah._

 _There was a private, a Marine draftee. Filipino woman. Eighteen. Perla Lumaban. I'll always remember her name._

 _She was given the duty of designating the coordinates of the kinetic strikes, had these fancy binoculars. She came up to me and was wondering what the hell was happening and why we were opening fire. So I point her toward the woman, running away._

 _And then,_

 _And then…_

 _And then!_

 _She looked._

 _Forgot she was direction millions of dollars of military hardware and explosive energy when she used her binoculars to look at the woman._

 _She looked. At the woman._

 _With those binoculars._

* * *

Ramirez had been holding his hands in front of his head, like binoculars, looking straight at Kurata, but to Ramirez, he wasn't there. He saw through him as those in the wagon looked on. The man was petrified.

And then the vet began laughing, shaking.

"Funniest fucking thing. You know? Rookie mistake, right?" he looked around.

"George." Doc had said his name, trying to get him out of that memory. But he went on.

"I heard the slow tone of the binoculars sending coordinates to the satellites above. But I couldn't knock it out of her hands, or move it. And I think she realized that too as I saw her lock up, and almost throw up. Right there."

And he paused as his own face froze, clasping his hands in front of him, hard, his knuckles turning white.

He didn't say anything. No one did, for minutes.

"And what happened?" Pina had finally broke it.

Ramirez had talked as he ran his hand over his face, dragging his mouth down. "Frozen… she was. Yep. I was going to be mad at her. Furious… but then… then I realized she was forced to see herself kill a mother and her two children. I don't forgive her. No one could. And I don't think anyone else knows she did it. Not mad though."

He breathed out hard, his dragging hand having taken sweat off of his face. Cold sweat.

"She accidently kicked off the assault early, and she didn't even hit anything… meaningful. Militarily. One hell of a mistake. Those rods from god just, fucking, make mountains as tall as the Sierra Nevada when they hit and explode inside the earth. And it all comes back down like…" he knew he was wandering off topic as he looked back at Pina, she actually listening to him. This old war vet, talk.

"My point, for talking about that little spiel, princess, is that young people are the most dangerous people that will ever be. You don't know any better, as much as you tell yourselves. Your perception of the value of life, what you think about yourself, what you're doing and going to do… yeah, being eighteen is a great age if you want to have a bunch of reckless killers for your army. You want soldiers however, you want people like us, you want people Doc's age, or Bannon's or Masterson's age. Hell, even your age, Lieutenant Itami."

"You sound like you have a disdain for young people." Kuro had muttered at the man, however, for once in her life, she had been somewhat scared as that man had given her a millisecond of a glare at her. Her sass was not taken.

"I have a proper respect to any eighteen year old who has to pick up a gun and kill for their country. Doesn't mean I have to respect them as good soldiers. There's a difference. I know. I'm forty four years old now. I been holding onto a gun for as long as you been alive, princess. And let me tell you… eighteen isn't the right age to go to war. No. No age is good enough to go to war. But if you have to pick a general range, least pick people who have lived a life. Like me. You send eighteen year olds to war, young people, they will forever crave it. They have nothing to go back to but war."

"I suppose it wouldn't make you happy that the Empire is currently conscripting all males of age to join the Imperial Army?" she responded.

"Well, I certainly hope you and Captain Emerson's peace talks have been going smoothly then." he said as he leaned back, his M72 Law between his feet as he held it.

"…What do you think about Captain Emerson then? His age?" she asked as they all looked through the slit in the canopy toward the front of the caravan.

"I'll tell you the truth, Pina, Lieutenant Itami. It ain't nothing Hitman hasn't heard before from me: I have my doubts about Captain Emerson, granted he's proven himself beyond words capable and he's grown since I was first assigned to him, tremendously. But I have my doubts on him as a person. Not as an officer."

"Really?"

"He's an overachiever. Tell that man to do something, he'll do it a 110% and probably drag whoever he's with up too. And sometimes those people he drags with him aren't ready for it. When he fails, or when he thinks he fails, he fails hard. Knowing how he grew up, makes sense, but as a soldier… always going to be failures in war."

"Sheesh. Wonder what you think about me, Sergeant Ramirez."

"I'm wondering why the fuck you don't work in the manga industry if you're so into the stuff. Is all." he said intensely.

Itami backed down. "…thanks sergeant."

Emerson's horse had whinnied as it had rounded around the back of the caravan to them. It was getting pretty dark. "When we get on site it'll be a twenty percent watch. Ramirez, Doc, you up to it?"

"I'll grab a few men when we get there." he nodded, and Emerson had rounded his horse back to the front.

"A lot of you Americans have been turned into knights, you know." Kuro had commented as she had seen Emerson's distinction: an honorary part of the Rose Order. She was almost annoyed. "All the kids want to be like you."

Emerson and all the tank crews, they had their honors bestowed upon by Myui and Pina, and the kids in the Corridor had loved these knights. She shook her head disdainfully, almost hopelessly. "One of them, after I was done giving them a vaccine shot, told me _**thank you**_."

Everyone had checked their ears as they heard Kuro speak English. "Thank you?" Doc had asked for sure.

"Yes. They speak like you now… can't say I'm a little jealous."

"The hell…? I know the Marines haven't been teaching English language classes at Italica. You Japanese have full control over the language part of it." Doc had said to his counterpart.

"I suppose we can't force these people onto a language, unless they want it." she said with a certain type of mellowness. "What a shame."

"Itami?" Pina had asked as the ride continued into the dusk.

"Yes, princess?"

"Why was Captain Emerson and his sergeant so disappointed in me with these documents?"

Itami's gaze hardened. "You tried to smuggle something underneath their… our noses. And he was your teacher for the last month, so I understood. Of course he feels betrayed. And what if you were smuggling, or have been smuggling, something much more volatile? Huh?"

"I wouldn't." She glanced at Doc's Luger on his chest holster.

"I hope not."

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – The Corridor – Outside Arnus Hill**_

* * *

"Assassin to Assassin 4-3. You there 4-3?" One of Major Sevson's radio handlers had spoken that night to one of the Marine fireteams about to disembark for their nightly watch over one of the Warlord tanks. Assassin 4-3 had been assigned to Warlord 1-3, Kingdom Come. They had been at Arnus Base, escorting back some surplus supplies from one of the PXs before they would walk their way back to Italica on schedule.

"4-3 Actual here. Go ahead Assassin." an accented female voice had said as she pulled down her mouth covering keffiyeh and spoke into her microphone piece: the scarf a souvenir from a war long ago for her.

"Assassin. 4-3, JSDF guards on perimeter are reporting one VIP, a Miss Chuka Luna Marceau, needs pick up in the boneyard and escort to Italica, how copy, over?"

"4-3 Actual copies all. Interrogative Assassin, over."

"Assassin. Go ahead 4-3. Over."

"4-3 Actual. Why do we need to pick up the elf? Over."

A slight pause, the exchange of Japanese in the background.

"Assassin. As reported, Chuka is currently beating her hands into a pulp on a rock shaped like a dragon and needs someone to stop her, you are the closest fireteam to her position, over."

"….4-3 Actual. Received. Over."

"Thanks 4-3. Assassin out."

"Are we on elf watching duty tonight Sarge?" one of 4-3 actual's Marines had spited as he locked back his M27 IAR for a patrol. The Naval Lieutenant Commander had been able to slowly bring weapons back up to modern spec, slowly, for the armories with a little paperwork bargaining. In fact the Abrams themselves were next on his list apparently, the Marine chambering a round from the C-mag and thanking him, sub-consciously.

"Well, the damned Rangers are gone, who else is gonna do it? That poster boy Itami?" another had bellyached as they hit the flashlights on their helmets, it had been way past dark at that point as they veered off the main road into the village surrounding Arnus Base and the Corridor. "Hell, why not Rory?"

"Doesn't matter Marines." 4-3 Actual had said sternly. "We do what headquarters tell us to do. _Oorah_?"

" _Oorah_."

"Good." she said as she picked up her pace into a jog. "Let's hustle. Don't want her biting the bone when we get there."

"You really think she's really gonna do that Sergeant Lumaban?"

"You really want to explain to Major Sev why one of his, and the JSDF's, best assets is denied the use of her fingers for the next month? She's our god damned refugee clerk."

"No Sarge."

"Then let's go."


	22. 2-4: To Do Nothing

A/N: Not exactly happy with how I got Yao and Lumaban to interact, but Lumaban represents a.) someone's donation to this story and b.) Our notion of a God put in contrast with the Special Region.

I'm not religious. I'm Agnostic at best, but I recognize it's an important part of society, and I still go to church, personally. But that's besides the point.

Anyway, two more chapters until Itami goes AWOL? Probably. Should see combat next chapter, and then, probably, the rest of the chapters for section 3.

But that being said, the latter half of Section 3 will be something of a mini project. With the way Itami goes off into the unknowns of the Special Region, and with the occasional comment that my story is reminiscent of Spec Ops: The Line and Heart of Darkness, I've been inspired to model my version of the "Flame Dragon Arc" as this:

My interpretation of Heart of Darkness, translated to the Special Region. The steamboat replaced by the M1A1 Abrams, Kingdom Come, helmed by Wilbur. Half of Hitman will be with him as well, so no worries there, along with the canon passengers.

But that's enough preliminary information. I'm sure you would rather ready the world fall apart yourself.

BlondDude42 - Thanks for actually listening to the music. All the songs here are actually symbolic in some sort of way, especially with me pushing for 2000s hits. Much like the armor, the weapons, the lingo the Americans use, the songs are of the era when Iraq, Afghanistan, was invaded. I intend to harken the reader back to that age with that music, and, if not, to highlight specific feelings or mood with the music.

So yeah, most of it is intentional, lyrics wise. The songs are much like the "manifest destiny" inserts, and like the origin of those quotes, I intend to have the most "identifiable" songs to be used. So songs like "Welcome to the Black Parade", "Wake Me Up When September Ends", "How Far We've Come", "World" by Five for Fighting, "Disco Inferno", "New York State of Mind" are a few I've put on the plate, especially when I bring Lelei and Pina back over again.

TheBleachDoctor - Thanks, it really means a lot that my own characters and the actual ones interact in a believable way. It just makes them real in this "injection" of reality into Gate.

Granet - Just civilian workers. I won't be the one to introduce mercenaries or PMCs. There's no place in this story for them unless they are instead Special Region native mercenaries.

PWashington - Yeah, I'll develop Lelei more over the "Heart of Darkness" section.

Keimarios - I really am tempting fate with the ratings? Aren't I? Well, nonetheless, I backup the story after every chapter just for this reason. In the event this does get taken down I'll politely ask the moderators to put it back up so I can change the ratings. I mean, personally I'm not too sure of what kind of rating to give this story at all.

Blazedflame - And I love this kind of response. I mean, I want people who aren't Americans to read this story and respond and I want to hear from them about my interpretation of America is in line with what they think.

KrullaChief - I wouldn't be inclined to believe you with the "goofing off" part entirely, because I've had several military members, **_ApothecaryBlues_** of 1st Armored (of whom inspired Wilbur), _ **Faust1812**_ (a Marine Corps Abrams crewman who is writing " ** _Here We Go Again_** " alongside me in the GATE section) among others come to me and say "yes, this is how it was" and have encouraged me to keep writing this story as it is. I agree, humor is important, but if I wanted to entertain with this story in that way, I'd be missing the point of making this story in the first place. What is most important to me in making and writing these characters isn't that they're one distinctive trait (albeit I have to emphasize or exaggerate in some cases for the sake of literary storytelling), but rather, that they're human, that they're as real as they can be in contrast to the craziness around them.

And as for how my characters, this story, interprets America, which is me using them to tackle that question of the righteousness of American Peace and Morality, it cannot be said to be wrong or right absolutely. If the answer to America's problems and what we do to the world was absolute, we would've found it already. This story uses itself to follow the dialogue and see how it translate to a comparative "blank slate" and sets America up with itself, in some way.

I love my country, my characters love their country. But that is the same country that has made Pakistani kids afraid of a blue sky because that is when America uses its drones to hunt down targets of interest rather indiscriminately. It is the country that has found itself with dying nations at its feet and itself to blame for the terrorist groups that have sprouted up ever since we entered the sandbox.

I'm not here to write about my America anyway, and, in the Special Region, that train of thought is with the 7th MEU as they realize they are digging another grave alongside an ally.

This story is not supposed to be funny, triumphant, or boasting of America's place in the world, and thus, it's not for everyone. But for those who do read, it is my goal to have them take something away: a lesson taught or a thought mulled over in the mind late at night. It's supposed to hurt.

Before I leave you to 2-4, I have something that's been a particular bullet point in why I write this story, that hovers above me as I think about it.

Episode 2, The Two Armies. In the anime, Lord Duran's final attempt at attacking Arnus Hill, after he shoots off that one promised arrow toward the Special Task Force, he is driven mad, or realizes how sane he really is in the madness, as his notion of the world is blown apart around him. As that last mortar shell lands by his feet and breaks him, the anime cuts to the next scene, but not before displaying the title card of the anime and all the poetic irony of it.

GATE:

And so, the _Defense Force_ fought.

Can a faux military really be called a Defense Force after it kills 60,000 people in one night? But that argument devolves into "was there any other choice?".

Still, my point stands. It's a rather sobering moment in the madness that I've harnessed I think, in this story, with the hypocrisy.

* * *

The "boneyard" that had been the ground where the original counter attackers against Arnus Hill stood when the "war" was brought back on them was where the Marine fireteam Assassin 4-3 found themselves that night.

The boneyard had been as called that for many, many things, but any casual observer that would look out upon it from Arnus Hill's defensive positions would know that its naming was very much influenced by the amount of broken bones and corpses left to rot in the field.

Granted the original refugee efforts to scavenge from it had been fruitful: clearing up the field during their picking away at dragon and wyvern scales, but the weight of 60,000 corpses on the earth as it was would've scarred it forever and make it own its name.

It wasn't a place 4-3 was exactly happy to romp through, past zero dark.

It stank, the ground was overly fertile with the rotted corpses that the Special Task Force wasn't able to recover in time, and even those with the barest of superstitious consideration had felt something a tad eerie as the flashlights were kept on their headgear mountings, the night vision goggle being flicked down when the darkness became too much underneath that pure night.

* * *

 _ **Five months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 44**_

 _ **The Special Region – Outside Arnus Hill – The Boneyard**_

* * *

In that quiet, it was very easy to hear the ragged sound of panted breathing, yelps, and shrieks of rage.

4-3 wasn't alone, even without Chuka.

"Go on, git!" one Marine had waved his rifle in the vague direction of some scavengers using their PX bought glowsticks to help pick from the month old dead. Much like the spent brass around Italica, the Marines had been paying and providing work to the new inhabitants of the Corridor by offering jobs that cleared the land from battles fought.

Paid by the amount of bone by mass. The former raiders hadn't seen it as such a bad job… enough so that it came to be fought over out in the field.

The rush for commission, the fight for money, it kept some awake and out in the late hours of the night. Even if they weren't allowed.

These workers had curfew; Overlord not wanting to risk any friendly fire incidents in the night for those that went out into the boneyard.

Besides, in ancient times, the concept of "night life" had been a foreign practice. It was by the invention of artificial light, electricity and the lightbulb, which had originally spurred western life to continue past sunset.

These people had been introduced to electricity by Lelei's insistence that powerlines be extended from the Camp Kilgore and Arnus Hill to the Corridor.

Needless to say it took some getting used it.

Not that any of that light reached that far out to the Boneyard.

There was no light in any measure, as Staff Sergeant Lumaban slowly made their way over the piles and piles of bones with her fireteam in tow: toward the sound of increasingly fleshy and wet impacts of knuckles against rock.

"Miss Marceau." She said promptly as she moved her helmet and nightvision goggles off her head, her black hair wrapped up in a ponytail.

She hadn't been a fan of the new grooming codes for the Special Region deployment, but she wouldn't complain about seeing her hair as it was, before she became a Marine, a soldier. A memory, almost.

Then again memories were dangerous, as Chuka had non-verbally provided testament to.

She turned her head toward the four headlamps that came her way: her eyes, her face, her entire form ragged, bloody, self-inflicted suffering in the form of wanting some unknown revenge enacted on.

One of the Marine's rays had landed on her knuckles, one held up, shielding her eyes, the other grinding into that vague lump of a grey stone on that field, being grinded, through skin, she fighting against the gritty resistance to almost, in her mind, punch and rip into the heart and soul of a dragon.

The skin of her knuckles were scrambled, and if Lumaban didn't know any better, she had smashed them only after she had run them for hours under sandpaper: those thin, pale hands now running with her own blood.

The gaze she had given the Marines was furious, but not toward them, and after she had recognized who they were: "the people in tan" as people had kept calling the Marines, she had gone right back to what she was doing.

Her next punch had sent further small splashings of crimson upward, onto her white t-shirt, and the sound it made had made Lumaban winced as she had dropped her rifle with her sling and took a step toward her urgently.

In all these wars she had fought ever since Iraq and Iran, she never got used to seeing blood and gore that wasn't of her own doing. That was the difference to her, who had done so much wrong in the name of so much right: responsibility.

"Chuka." she said sternly, her squad moving off point of the two women, rifles up. If not out of caution, but of habits formed from locals another world over who had been caught up in an emotional tirade against cruel fate.

She kept on with a flurry of punches against the rock, her cries that of rage, of unfinished business.

The Marines, and Lumaban in particular, had heard of what this rather important VIP was to the Special Task Force, to Lieutenant Itami and Captain Emerson. She had been the friendly, sympathetic face to the refugees to the Corridor who had help them find a temporary home amongst these strange new people that the JSDF and the Marines were.

Lumaban couldn't tell those amiable traits in the night as she had tightened her fists in her Oakleys before reaching out toward Chuka, dragging her back mid punch, Lumaban's palm pushing against her left shoulder and away.

"Chuka. Enough is enough for tonight." she said tiredly as a woman of her age, at war, surprisingly feeling the elf's resistance. Chuka had pushed back.

"Is it dead?! Is it dead?!" she cried out into the air, into Lumaban's ears.

"What're you talking about, Miss Marceau?" the sergeant funneled her down a trade of thought: to make her realize what she was doing as her palm moved from over her heat to her shoulder and gradually pushed her down to a sit. "Everything here is already dead."

"Everything!? Everything!" her cries of incoherence and rage turned into nonsense, her running hands going to the sky, into the night. "Me! You! You! We're all dead! But so is that dragon! We're all dead! Hooray! At least Father is alive!"

"Miss Marceau, calm down. Do you know what you've been doing to yourself?"

Lumaban, and indeed most other of the armed servicemen, hadn't held Itami's orders in a serious light: "To do nothing." Doing nothing was what usually lead to disasters.

The orders weren't official anyhow. She had her own CO and neither Pierce, Hazawa, or Sevson had said anything about. Sergeant Major Freeman however, he was being paid to be an asshole, to keep his Marines in regulation and in order. Any order was a good order for him to yell at everyone about.

"What do you mean?" the elf responded as one of the Marines had drawn his combat lifesaver and put on a pair of latex gloves, slowly, gradually, taking Chuka's hands and seeing the damage as his sergeant kept her own hands on Chuka's shoulders to keep her still, only to kick some bones behind her out of the way and lay her down.

The Marine had unrolled the dressing, but Lumaban had waved a hand out stopping him short of applying after he had smeared it with quick acting medical gel: meant to plug wounds of all natures temporarily.

"Miss Marceau, look at your hands, please, for your own good." she ordered as she brought Chuka's blonde head onto her thing as she squatted, getting her flashlight out and dimming it onto her face to provide light.

So she did, not knowing why there was a distinct, splicing pain and warmth over her hands as something clicked in her mind and she saw herself as a different person, her pupils dilating and her breath calming down.

As she had seen the shredded flesh, her face cringed. "Make it stop! Make it stop! Please! **_Father_**!" her hands had went to her head, her ears, and she held her head tight as her golden hair was ruined. "Why! Why can't I stop-"

Lumaban had held her shoulders tight and pushed her onto the ground, the Marine with the dressing seizing her hands and tying her knuckles beneath the white wraps.

"I don't know how-! Where is he?!"

Her words made no sense, her tone fluctuating between desperate and murderous. The need to do something, anything, had made her body rumble and her legs kick as her mind devoured itself from the inside out.

* * *

 ** _The Special Region - Italica - South Wall - Warlord 1-3_**

* * *

"Offering to craft Lieutenant Colonel Noelle a new chair isn't going to sway him to divert his flight plans for the next few days you know. I know the guy, stubborn bastard."

Wilbur's relatively quiet chit chatter with his own refugee (Itami wasn't the only one who could play surrogate man of the hour, he had bellyached mentally) had been the only noise aside's from Yao's carving knife going at some hidden project of hers underneath her cloak. She had barely rumbled, letting Wlbur know he was still being listened to as the rest of the crew had been lazily flipping through their phones or a book brought over.

Wilbur had understood why Itami had looked after his token three refugees after having to spend time with Yao, door to door in the officer's barracks in both Camp Kilgore and Arnus, trying to gain some momentum on her crusade against this dragon that they only now refused to kill.

 _"Do you need me with you? I can go argue your case on my own, promise, we'll make more headway tha-"_

 _"I need you."_

Was the words that had taken Wilbur down the path he chose. For whatever reason, and he did believe her words, she needed him to help her. What was a Marine, a soldier, like him to do but do as he would? Arguing, being a general pain in the ass, as they tried like a broken record to relocate any opinion or find any resource able to deal with her problem.

When she had said those words however, she had offered everything she did to the generals to him. Her body, her word, her soul, her wealth. Everything.

She was on her knees looking for an answer, and Wilbur had given her his best, and without the need for anything she offered. _"It's only right."_ he answered, feeling like an American for once: not some British man having come to the country, trying to run away from an island nation which held a company of black gold and black hearts.

 _"Then why do others do not do what is right as well?"_

His answer to that was silence and confusion.

For now, he had finally convinced her that she would temporarily be a master craftsman of wood and iron while she stayed here in The Corridor under his watch. She had considerable skill in that, and housing development often led to a supplemental rise in the furniture business. To any other refugee, it would've been a good life looking forward. But Yao was not a refugee in a traditional sense: she wanted to go back.

She never got too comfortable; always reminded herself that miles and miles away her forest, her families, were suffering as she discovered this new world.

But tonight, with all that she could do done for the busy day prior, she had simply sat next to Wilbur as the man had chewed nicotine gum, and waited for the dawn, and their Marine fireteam, to come.

Myui had provided him a new cape after the first was ruined in his initial clash with Yao, the sword still on him.

It was that sword and that cape that had become Yao's little personal project to craft on a small block of wood as Wilbur simply stared up into the night sky, only brought out of his wonder of the cosmos by Yao poking his shoulder.

"Hm?"

"For you."

Wilbur found family in the military, seeing as his self-exile from Britain had cut off many of his ties. At least in the military as he understood it, the "brother in arms" thing was still very much true. Having family in some capacity was nice, and his heart had felt that same twang of wistful thankfulness surge throughout his body in the cold night as he had rubbed his eyes and taken the small decorative block of wood that fit into his palm, Yao blowing the last of the shreddings away.

It was simply a 3D diorama of Wilbur's sword stuck into a rock, his cape drawn across its blade, wrapping around it rather artistically.

Yao didn't let her face be seen by Wilbur as he had gone from wood to her, she having shuffled to put her back against the M2 turret, at ninety degrees from Wilbur.

It was a shame, he thought, for once she would've seen him smile as he held it delicately, going to his commander's seat and putting it gingerly on a shelf inside.

As he had come out he had pressed on her shoulders with both his hands for but a briefest second, comfortingly as he had ran his thumbs across her form before returning to his stargazing.

"I'm sorry I can't roll this tank out on my own, Yao."

"…I know you would, if you could."

"I will if I can. Right boys?"

As per a romantic tanker tradition, they never had their actual names in the hot seat, an observance seen as they responded. "Oorah English."

Wilbur's nickname had been self-explanatory.

The loader had been dozing, Wilbur smacking his hand right next to his head in the turret. "Right Schmack?!"

"Ay! I- Yes. What?" he said dazed.

"Good."

The slight murmurings of chuckles had subsided as the sound of rushing boots in the distance had got the men of Kingdom Come ready, Wilbur's M4 in his hands as the rest of the crews locked back their pistols.

Wilbur had wanted to call out to the identified figures, his Marine fireteam of the last month, that they'd been late, but upon seeing who had been in the staff sergeant's arms had shut him up as he got off the tank, M4 across his back as he dropped the cape on his shoulders. Yao had followed.

"Perla?" Wilbur had recognized the cringing figure in her arms as she had just barely slowed her sprint.

"She ain't getting any better sergeant." had been her words as the rest of her Marine fireteam caught their breaths and assumed their usual positions around Kingdom Come.

"Boys! Hold down the house, alright?" Wilbur had gotten the affirmative only after he had bolted off with the staff sergeant into Italica.

The Marines had come to alleviate the tankers for the night: standing guard over it and making sure no funny business was had with Kingdom Come. As if the hulled down tank was being used nowadays, much to the chagrin of Warlord Actual, who had been slowly drowning herself at the bar like any good, sane soldier would having led the charge they did at Italica.

Of course soldiers tend to go stir-crazy during deployments anyway, as Pierce had explained during the daily briefings. He himself included along with Major Sevson, the New Jersey man unsure of how to handle being an impromptu city official in Italica with Lelei and Myui.

But this was standard operation procedure, albeit an unwritten one, with the Marines.

In the 2010s with the decline of Iraq and Afghanistan, NATO and ISAF forces in the region, soldiers were often put into positions they were never trained for. As in subjects not related to combat. The villages, towns, cities, that these foreign soldiers had graced in patrols and deployments were told by the people not to kill, as that was the last thing anyone had wanted, but rather to fix every other problem.

 _There isn't enough clean water available._

 _My neighbors are stealing electricity from me and I do not know how to set up these American provided solar panels._

 _There's a bomb in my backyard._

 _My children cannot go to school because the walk is too long because all the streets are bombed out._

So the soldiers had to play provider, domestic problem solvers, bomb handlers, and infrastructure maintainers, among many things to keep even a smidgen of the populace from throwing rocks. Roles that they were not ready to take on, more often than not.

And so time had tested the United States Marine Corps, the American Army, the British Brigades, French Legionnaires, the German Bundeswehr and many more; nations the world over come for the reprisal of the imperial sin.

Time had tested them, molded them, into what they were today and how they acted. America being the one who would bear that burden anew in another world while tagging along with the Japanese and their expansion efforts.

The Marines would simply sit themselves down at Italica, and let the world come to them for once. To do otherwise would damn them again to another world away from home.

The city itself had repaired itself well: the broken, albeit clean, slate that it was after the battle leaving much wiggle room for the Marines to establish Camp Kilgore in one corner of the city, the rest given back to Myui and Lelei in a rather modern fashion. Sevson and sergeant Major Freeman had made clear to Myui that they were simply renting what space Camp Kilgore had been taking up, and thus a healthy "endowment" was had every week to get the original layout of Italica up to some sort of respectable position.

After all, as Pierce had often bellyached during the daily briefings, Italica was the only American base on this side of the Gate. It was supposed to represent the country of her stripes.

Arnus and her sister bases throughout the area, they represented Japan fully, if not by their inherent build up, but by what the educators, the diplomats between common people and the people of Japan, were teaching.

 _ **Democracy**_. In what world was America not the one preaching its defining political system, but rather Japan? In the world of the Special Region apparently.

The vote, the values of democratic people on the other side, what kind of people they were supposed to be and what kind of people Japan had become ever since they were introduced to democracy. That is what had been what the Japanese had perpetuated, if not intentionally, but by the byproduct of simply being a people in a land, which they had claimed as their own through prejudice, power, and political meandering back home.

Hazama had seen these people as Japanese, and he had brought that up to Pierce during one meeting: to not compete in the game of influence.

Pierce hadn't been doing that anyway in the lessons his Marines were overseeing, but the fact that it was brought up at all had highlighted a danger he had not been aware of until that meeting. In hindsight it had made sense as to why the JSDF didn't want the Americans in their rebuilding efforts to allow access to the solar powered grid to Italica and the Corridor.

Lelei was educated anyway about it, along with her own mentees: children of the original group of refugees. America could not hold scrutiny to children educated in maintaining the place where they live.

Despite it all, the blood of the Japanese on Imperials hands, the opportunity of the Special Region, the UN up in arms about such a hasty land grab without consultation, America was on a foreign land again, and he had to walk lightly, regardless of its ruler.

In the case of the two Marines and their elves however, they couldn't exactly walk lightly in their rush to get the younger of the two elves to the hands of a medical professional.

Not that the nightlife minded. Even with the newly installed street lamps along refurbished cobblestone and concrete roads, people had kept to their habits. It was only a month since the Special Task Force had come through after all. Five months since the Ginza Incident.

Only soldiers and MPs had roamed the street that night on patrol, and that was mostly true.

They trio didn't say much of anything save panting until they had pushed past Camp Kilgore's front post toward the infirmary tent, the guards on duty recognizing everyone's favorite "sir" and the two elves, regardless of their status.

The well trained Marines didn't do as much as stumble as Perla had handed Chuka off to one of medics onto a litter as they ducked beneath a green tent's flap.

"What happened?" Wilbur had asked for one of the medics as they undid the wrappings around her knuckles.

Perla had shrugged hard as she held her boonie cap off her head to alleviate some of the sweat. "She got carried away."

Punched her knuckles to the bone, incoherence, high temperature, mind maddening headaches which caused her to suddenly, while walking back with 4-3, to get on her knees and bash her head against the ground, knocking herself unconscious.

 _She got carried away._

"Ah."

Any of the Marines that had known any of the Rangers had heard of Chuka, the same across for the JSDF with RCT3. Stories, rumors, they perpetuate throughout groups of people all the same, regardless of civilian or military distinction. A popular story that had been being spread around was that Chuka had PTSD and started creeping around the streets late at night looking for people.

That was a story some of the mothers of Italica and the Corridor had liked to tell the children to stay in bed.

It wasn't untrue.

"Captain Emerson's unit is out, right?" Wilbur had asked as he had adjusted his cape and sword with leather gloved hands, taking it off in the polite company of fellow Marines. A few of the corps had been giving him shit for dressing himself up as such. As if he was any better, they had thought.

"The Rangers? Yeah. You'd think that they'd have someone else watch her… poor girl." Lumaban's Filipino accent had cut through as she had regained her breath and pitied, cutting it back down to the proper American. Wilbur had admired the accent, at least when he had thought about accidently teaching the Rose Order knights his own brand of English with heavy vowels and a twang that made his yelling of orders comical, almost.

"Yeah? Well you'd think that someone would have done something with her." he said bluntly.

"First Lieutenant Itami's orders not to interfere. sergeant major made that clear, sergeant." Only when such trivial orders were convenient, or in the appropriate company, they were followed. It tended to keep her men alive, as Lumaban reasoned.

"What? You actually listen to Freeman for every single one of his orders?" his dissent was noted and understood.

"Guarding Kingdom Come is a nice assignment Alton, nice, peaceful, and I get to meet a lot of kind religious types." Rory's own briefings on gods and religions in this world had been enlightening, if not anything else: each man, woman, and child picking a god to worship at some point like some true to life version of those games of elder scrolls and dragons.

"Personally I get enough of "religious types" with our chaplain, Perla…" Alton had disapproved of how closely she had kept her faith to her heart, but he couldn't argue as he saw this travesty of a broken girl before him, her face pained. "You know, blokes call me crazy all the time Perla, for what I did for this town. But you think if I was actually crazy Pierce would've gotten my ass out of the field real quick. Why can't we do that with Chuka? Hell, we're doing that with several of the POWs, aren't we?"

One of the medics had overheard as he had gently grazed the skin above Chuka's right hand knuckles, the slight dragging of flesh making her cringe in her face. "Heh. Crazy, eh?"

"Yeah doc?" Perla had asked sterningly.

"The Ranger's combat medic told me that Chuka's been a walking wounded ever since they grabbed her during their first few days here. That Itami has some sick conception of "Do no harm." let me tell you… Fuck. Crazy's not even an actual medical term." one of nurses had shook his head at the rambling man on duty.

"She going to be alright man?" Wilbur had asked as Yao had silently let him know she was still there with a touch on his shoulder.

Medic had looked to one of the others on duty in the tent as they had wheeled unlocked the wheels on the stretcher. It was a look of "probably".

"Just got to make sure these things don't get infections. She'll be back to walking wounded status in no time… and the reason why we aren't givin' her the help she needs is because her caretaker, Itami, doesn't want to admit there's a problem officially."

"Really?" Lumaban had asked incredulously at the doc's sarcastic observations, of her going back tomorrow and knowing she would be doing the same thing.

He sucked in some air as he looked lowly at the blood on her shirt. "You tend to get cynical, sergeant, when you find the locals experimenting with the medicine at the PXs and end up with more kids overdosing on sleep medicine than actual combat casualties... good night Marines." the doc on duty had simply nodded at the two Marines and the other elf as he had carted Chuka away for her overnight stay presumably.

And they all looked on as she blended into the rest of the suffering, the sleeping, and those in-between.

"You know, PX regulation says we can't buy more than one or two things at a time when we go to them… but the civies? Sky is the limit for them."

The rows of beds and liters were filled with not uniformed men, but locals. It wasn't common for the medicinal practices of the modern military to be considered up and away the most effective that the land had ever seen. The doctors at both Italica and Arnus were inclined to open their doors to all.

And open their doors they did to cases, for better or worse. It was needed after all with the local population's exposure to such items like the heating iron, the sewing machine, or in the case of around a dozen children, sleep medicine. Any medicine that would make children quiet was an asset to parents, and seeing as the store brand sleeping medicine was available in the PXs the concoction was slowly making the rounds through the Corridor and, eventually, as was the case of same of the fabrics and clothing found in the PXs, outwards.

It just wasn't something anyone had been expecting when Rory's MPs had delivered a father who had given his baby daughter a quarter of a bottle of sleeping medicine to make her stop crying in the middle of the night.

As grisly as that was to even write a report on, it exposed to the higher ups and all of their infinite wisdom that having Post Exchanges that were set up, geared for the usage by the modern personnel despite their location, wasn't exactly the ideal scenario. But it was too late to reel it back, all things considered. On the Italica side of the Corridor that damage was limited from such cases by the merit that there hadn't been too many PXs on that side by the Marine's insistence.

It was assumed the concepts of many modern amenities would be understood by the local population of the Special Region, as was the Japanese sentiment. The result had been spelled out in dead children, burnt skin, blood on fabric, and in one instance and exploding fire extinguisher. Domestic warfare, in some sense.

Fact of the matter was that the blame had yet to fall on anyone for these incidents, and the JSDF seemed just fine with this state given that the Corridor had seemed so much happier with the PXs in place providing their promise of a Japanese world after the Empire.

"Well, Alton, certainly hasn't stopped you from using the bullet trade to your benefit."

Wilbur had shrugged somewhat offended, wanting to take his mind off the elf being carted away and instead to the elf behind him, turning away from the rows of beds, half empty, half full.

Going rate for a Corridor made, locally brewed imitation of the wonderfully sweet drink known as soda (Coca Cola more specifically) had been two five five six cartridges for a quart. As more and more of the leftovers of the Battle of Italica had been returned to the Marine armorers in Camp Kilgore for reward, those remaining in the illegal trade that had sprouted up had grown in value. As the allure of the golden brass that people still had believed to be magic.

Pierce had immediately realized that to actually explain how the bullet worked, and thus to announce how worthless, yet integral, those spent cases was to them would be to reveal the general basic principle of the modern firearm.

Anyone who was looking to imitate the Special Task Force would've paid just about the same going rate Yao had offered for that information.

To Pierce's further headaches, the fact that Lelei had deconstructed that on her own had made the trim, old CIA spook that showed up mysteriously one day to berate him wasn't ideal.

Still, the Special Task Force had nothing to fear from the girl. Bannon understood that enough as the two had idly sipped tea at the end of their workdays, the discussion of what Italica was going to be in this new world something that Lelei had outlined to her new secret working partner rather flatly.

 _"Don't worry."_ she said. In English.

"Why?" Bannon had responded back.

 _"You are still useful to me."_

"Hey, least I'm not the one who is using a god damn nine mil as the center piece of a necklace. If Lelei really wants that bullet trade to stop, she would just straight out say it. The people here call her "Your holiness", I mean, seriously."

Wilbur's own observations of this culture apart hadn't been the first time he had done this in his life. He'd been there, in the Middle East, Africa, the American West, and the contested naval territories throughout the world in the hunt for oil on BP's behalf. He had seen his fair share of cultures that his once united Kingdom had looked over.

Never once did he see the local deities sold for two thousand yen a piece, Japanese sword makers find a new market, or a smuggled doujin become a holy book.

To him, perhaps by the grace of being a tank commander and all that came with it, it felt rather detaching.

Perla had simply shook her head in disapproval and patted the back of the man's shoulder for him to follow, and he did after slightly twitching his head at Yao to follow.

Staff sergeant Perla Lumaban, to Wilbur's first impression, was something in-between a good Marine and a person who had been trying to make up for lost karma. Not that he didn't understand what that felt like.

It was how he justified how she, very slyly and as covertly as she did, tried to speak of Jesus Christ and the Good Book to these people, despite Overlord's and Hazama's explicit instruction not to.

Then again, he didn't expect much different from a Filipino in the gross generalization, as Christian as they was in the face of all the religious turmoil the world had faced in his lifetime. For some it was their savior, their damnation, and their answer all in one.

"Might have another for your flock, Perla." Wilbur had lightly said as he held his arms behind his head and stretched, motioning to the dark elf that towered over the woman.

She rolled her eyes as they exited that base of steel once more, out into the dark of the night above and the almost uncomfortably white of the proper Italica streets that had been illuminated by lamps meant for cities a world away.

"Oh whatever do you mean by that?"

"You said you found Him after Iran, right? War and tragedy? Have anything to say to her?"

Yao had looked at Wilbur with one eyebrow raised, looking at the woman before her and the patch on her arm. She wasn't an officer, so she didn't exactly give much thought to her.

They both gauged each other in that split second stare. A before and after: a tragedy about to come, and a tragedy come and gone, written in their face and person.

"Doesn't work like that. I don't get any bonus points for getting as many people as I can into It… besides, from what I've heard from my CO at dinner, I hear she's still fighting strong for her cause. She doesn't _need_ it."

"What would I need?" Yao had asked her, finally letting the wraps around her head fall into her arms, revealing pale hair and a tired face.

And in the distance, as Lumaban turned around and reached both her hands out to the dark elf's, Wilbur had seen Rory for but a second on a nightly patrol the two sharing a gaze of pleasantries before she had ducked back into the shadows of the street.

"Hello dear, my name is Perla Lumaban, it's a pleasure to meet you Miss Ducy. We've heard so much about you." she squeezed the elf's slender hands. "Trust me, we know about that dragon as good as anyone."

Yao had given her attention to Perla fully at that. "Really?"

"Rumor gets around fast, and all of the Marines want to go out and do something about it. Trust me, we do."

"Then why do you not do something?"

"Soldiers follow orders, Miss Ducy, and my orders are to do nothing." To do nothing in many ways. As was the case, the orders, from the brass of both countries.

"But what do you feel is right?

 ** _"_** It doesn't matter what I feel. I'm nothing but a Devil Dog, a hound on a leash to my commander and the powers above. I serve them both."

"Then am I nothing but a puppet of cruel design? A rouge looking to upset this horrible order? What am I? What are you?!"

The mentioning of god, of any religion, had made Yao's voice rise to Wilbur's distress. He had not heard her angry before. "My clan! THose who gave up! They all gave themselves up to a god once. And she did nothing for them! How dare you try to insinuate another alternative such as that!"

And this was the reason why Overlord and Hazama had tried to stop any mentioning of their own cultures, of their own religions. They didn't have the right. Perla had not recognized that. It wasn't their right to say otherwise she thought. Then again, this was the most direct she had been thus far, and it was with Yao, of all people.

"I was in another war once, you know." Perla had said calmly as they continued to walk down that Italica street. "A horrible war, to be honest. Much worse than here. A war I was never asked to take part in."

"And what happened to you?" Yao had scathed.

Perla had licked her lips as she took in the scent of her scarf, reminding her of where she had picked it up. "I killed people who didn't deserve to die. Innocent people. I became a Devil Dog truly, during that war. I found His comfort even when I was such in a state."

Yao had seen the tattoos and the mimicking of dogs among the ranks of the people in tan, the US Marines. If they were worshipping a God, apparently the Marines had worshipped someone by the name of Chesty Puller or a Bulldog. After all, Wilbur had often during his PT yelled each and every one of his chin-ups as "one for Chesty".

"And your God allows such kindness to such a person, but not me?"

"My God gave me hope for the future. Would you not like your own hope?" Lumaban shot back.

There was a sarcastic cry, heave, in Yao's voice as she couldn't believe what she was hearing. This wasn't the help she needed. "Where was your God when my village was destroyed? My fiancé killed? My brothers and sisters slaughtered by a beast? Where were you of all people? What kind of God lets you ignore my plight?! What kind of horrible God…."

The failures of religion, the mistakes of prophets, translated into the modern age had not treated the faiths kindly. A hard truth versus a comforting fable, and the world had chosen which it had preferred long ago as it crumbled beneath wars beyond comprehension.

But this was a different world, with different Gods, tangible gods, and there was something of a renewal of faith of those modern people who came. If not to reaffirm what beliefs they held, but to tell themselves where they stood in comparison.

To Yao, Christianity meant nothing to her, as Perla hardened her heart and didn't argue. To tell her that God would have a plan for her form this would be nothing but a slap in the face. That even she realized.

"Ff-…" she had stumbled a bit as she dealt with someone who looked at her in the eyes and told her what had saved her was useless. "Fair enough."

" _ **I don't need God, I don't need hope. I need someone who's willing to fight!**_ "

Yao took a step toward Perla, and for all the wars she had fought, all she had done, all the mistakes and people killed, she had yelped and felt the ice in Yao's veins, as if she was going to lash out at her for believing in something so irrelevant to the here and now.

"I should go." Perla had said lowly, uneasily.

Wilbur had stood up and stretched his arm to the sky, yawning, seeing the woman's visible distress as he had stepped in front of Yao. "sergeant Lumaban. Nice to see you this evening, heading to the bunk."

"sergeant Wilbur, Miss Ducy. Give my regards to Miss Marceau when she wakes up." she recomposed herself and nodded at the two walking off into the dark, her keffiyeh flowing in the dark night by its ends rather gracefully. The winds of Iran had treated the fabric almost as kindly as it did its wearer: which is to say not at all.

"Clever girl, that one. Kind… or at least, as kind as a person she can be after the war."

Yao calmed down, inwardly thinking she was just a tad unfair. "Devil dog… Is that what the Marines take after?"

"Woof."

She had giggled a bit as the two stood under the light, realizing what time it was.

"D-Day + 44. Wonder how many more." Yao had looked at him, not understanding his language of tactical talk. He returned the gaze in his recollections, hands in pockets and feeling that wooden gift of his. "…tell you what. There's another officer that might help us out. Lieutenant Commander Blackburn, some Navy guy… well, in your language a shipman."

"Hm?"

"How about we go out for dinner tomorrow, ask Myui and Madam Lalena to set up something up at the keep, invite him too. Pamper him up real good."

"…and if he doesn't come?"

"Well, if he doesn't come, I hope you wouldn't mind having dinner with me."

Of all the nerve Wilbur had, it was enough to ask her to dinner. Even if Yao hadn't exactly known of the modern, western implications of such a gesture, she had answered humbled. "I wouldn't mind at all if there's a chance at convincing this Commander Blackburn."

"In my line of work, a chance is all you need… see you tomorrow in the morning?"

And all she did was nod slowly as Wilbur as the man had draped his cape around him, almost in imitation of her. A red cape to a black one, an exile to a woman looking for her saviors. This land held a promise understood across many wishes: the dream of hope.

An American dream.

"Cheerio."

* * *

 ** _The Special Region - Outskirts of the Imperial Capital - Imperial Gardens_**

* * *

"You know what the Marines used to call Afghan, the places they go to war, Doc?" Black had held a cigarette between his mouth as he and Doc stood over the side of the pond, and Pina for that matter, she flicking his lighter on perpetually as she read her documents in the dark.

"What Jameson?" Doc had said tiredly as he put the hood back on his poncho, letting the moonlight shine off of his scalp.

"The Suck."

"... and?"

The garden was befit of an Imperial Royal party: green grass clipped and ever so carefully managed by highlights of flowers, ponds, and white furnishings and open air patios. It smelled like any heaven.

"What do we call this place to the next cycle that comes through? I mean, we're at war, right?"

"You're assuming that we're gonna be here long enough for us to be cycled out. Plus, you're still assuming that we're still calling her," he motioned down to Pina. "a terrorist."

"I mean, I don't mind being here, with what the wonderful scenery, the voluptuous walking animals who cater to our every need, and the fact no Iraqi son of a bitch or a Nork is gunning us down in some god forsaken land… but still."

"Well shit Black, you're sounding a bit like Masterson now."

"Eventually you run out of things to talk about during target practice with the MPs, so, eh, sergeant Masterson just runs that funny mouth of his about evils, how he's missing out on some sort of anime because he's over here, and about how if it were up to him none of them would have guns."

"It's how Cameron deals with himself, you know." he spoke English as Pina was engrossed in the biographies she smuggled before them. "Talking. Captain Jay Kay's got smokes, and Bannon, well, progressive levels of anger will be her mechanism."

"Anger huh Doc? What's mine?"

"Practice." Doc had nudged at the man's marksman rifle. "I seen your shots on target recently. Whatever happened to center mass, eh?" Black was a good shot at the very least, always accurate in everything he ever did. From penmanship, to artistry, to seven six two marksmanship. Headshots had been something he'd been getting nailed down instead of the usual center mass peppering from several hundred feet out.

"Ever since that damned Valentine over in Force Recon suddenly became our top ranking shooter, the DMs and the snipers feel the need to buck up. Me included, especially as a good ole special forces Ranger… besides, Imperials are pretty good target practice… no offense princess."

Doc and Black had been speaking English, Pina only now having known what the word princess meaning: her. The language barrier was still there, but practice made perfect.

She looked up from her documents.

"Huh?"

Black had simply shrugged at her as he had resumed his patrol, 20% of Hitman constantly circling the perimeter of the garden on patrol as RCT3 had slept soundly in the center with the rest. Captain Emerson and Staff sergeant Bannon having taken off toward Akusho for some op that even Pina hadn't been aware of. With them had been just another rifleman for security, having said they'd be back in the morning.

Pina had waited for the Marksman to head off into the night before beckoning Doc to a sit next to her.

"I can't seem to find much on Hitman as a whole." she said quietly after she had memorized the history of the world past 2015 and all the ghastliness of the Americans, apparently. She couldn't believe it, contrasted with the Rangers.

Doc had simply chuckled as he waved away the second hand smoke from the gone man. "We're not really too important in the grand scheme of things. We're just assets at the end of it."

"Assets?"

"Resources, items on a list that commanders send out to war and cross off and direct when appropriate. We don't have names, we just simply are. Always the way I felt."

"But you have a name, I know it." she had motioned the paper and the light source closer to Doc's face as he had seen a translated news articles from a nation so far away:

" _Pre-Med student from Detroit undergoes experimental cancer therapy."_

" _Experimental Cancer Treatment Successful! 90% of Clients Survive!"_

" _Cancer Survivor pursues career in Military; drops pursuit of Private Medical Practice."_

Doc had simply grimaced as he put the past behind him again. "You see, I don't know how I feel about you digging up information on all of us."

"But what if that information says you are a strong and noble man?"

Doc had ran his right hand over his chin, the lightest of brown goatees having occasionally sprouted up: the last vestiges of his hair along with impossibly light eyebrows. What a shame, he had always thought. "Well that's something I prove to you, not what any god damn university tabloid says."

"Would you rather me….?" she had ripped out the pages on Doc and held it underneath her lighter.

"At least you're trying to understand us. That counts for something." So he had taken her hand, only to glide over it to the Zippo, and snap it shut, leaving them in the dark momentarily before Doc had broken a glow stick to white glow.

"Thank you."

"Mmmph."

On she read, her eyes having landed on Staff sergeant Bannon's sheet. "Is sergeant Bannon not royalty in America?" she asked as she had seen the connotations of her last name: Bannon.

Doc had delved into his knowledge of his squad lead, carefully trodding as he stood up, onll to squat against the pond and how it reflected the stars above like cosmic waters. "Bannon, her family, is very rich. They put a lot of money into the stock economy and lead a lot of housing developments in the land they inhabit. sergeant Bannon, however, our Bannon, she was cast out from that life."

"It appears Emerson has a need for that land ownership touch I imagine… how strange for women to own property."

"Yeah? Well, that's another subject altogether, princess."

* * *

 ** _The Special Region - The Imperial Capital - Akusho_**

* * *

"Too many people." That is what Bannon had murmured to me from her horse as we had made our way through the empty streets of Akusho, she referring to the dwellers of the alleyways, the roofs, and those peering down on us from their shacks and houses that crowded the district.

The rifleman we had brought along had also grumbled the same misgivings, even as they both held their rifles tightly underneath their black cloaks, their faces hidden underneath hoods.

I had been a regular in these parts already, so I didn't give much care to my appearance sans the Rose Order cape and Foulke's carbonized armor. For all intents and purposes, I had become local, even with my plate carrier and kit on top of it.

I was rather proud of myself, all things considered. Not like Kouji had ever attempted to interact with the vox populi of this empire. I also learned how to ride a horse, that was a plus.

"You should see this place in the day time." I throated as we came to one of the many checkpoints put up by the local crime lords, a short cut through one of them any slave trading markets. The guards were there to make sure no one stole or had any funny business with the "products".

Our horses had wearily slowed down as we guided them that way, the two goblins that had been the guards that night drawing their swords, their rather heightened low light eyesight giving much to their capabilities as night watchmen.

"I'm sorry Kay Ro Bronxon, we only do business in the afternoon." one of them had said, phlegm heavy in his voice as they both looked to me and to my two followers. "Who are they?"

"Some of my pupils, goblin."

"More from that damned Rose Order?"

"Not quite." I had said bluntly before drawing a bag of denarii from one of the saddlebags and tossing it the short, grey creature's way. Every time I had stepped back out onto that battlefield of the arena, coin in prepackaged bundles as such had been in ample supply as the crowd had thrown their blessings at me. "Can your boss quit it and stop trying and sponsor me on the field? I ain't buying into it."

The Bessara family was one of the many crimelords of the town, and an evil I had to deal with during my time here, especially with this checkpoint of beast and bulkheads stopping my way to what I had planned.

All of them had been part of that dirty underworld of black market trading and slaves, and I had given my word to Cameron that we would deal with them in due time, but for now, they helped maintain the balance of the fragile common society in the capital. Much like the Taliban in Afghan years before.

"Yeah? Or else what, Darkie?"

"You testing me?" My cape had gone back a bit as I revealed that leather holster of bane. I suppose I really did know what Rory felt like with that halberd in some measure. "You're a nobody on a nightshift on a back route of a slum, I paid Bessara's toll, _do your job and let me pass_."

I could feel Bannon's judging eye drilling into the back of my head as I heard her lips part, as if to say something, but she had simply kept her tongue as the goblin was spooked at the very motioning to my gun.

"Bannon, Ortiz, you got your cameras still on you?" I asked as the wooden gates to this particular market were opened up for us to pass through.

The rifleman had sent his hood back, his helmet mounted with it, Bannon's on her shoulder strap as she lifted the cloak over to one side. "Good, record what you see. We're gonna need proof that this existed."

In my opinion the shock really never goes away unless you except that dirty business into your heart. To slave away coherent individuals, people, like products was a concept far beyond any of us at that point: something we had to categorize as uncivilized with no question about it.

Civilities, civilization and a functioning society. We did not think any who had such a system in place had any notion of that, and yet, here we were at the foot of an Empire with the majesty of Rome. And it existed with the inclusion of men, women, and children, tied by chains and contracts to be nothing but objects to be owned.

And so our horses had walked through it as Bannon and one of her squad saw what I had to deal with for the last month, the ruffling of flesh and groans we had simply thought a part of the ambiance of the night decoded into the mass of people and creatures tied to cages and each other in the open air markets that left a stench like no other.

"My lord." had been Bannon's words as she covered her mouth with her glove, gazing around the market we had trotted into. If it hadn't been for the cages, the individuals inside of them ruffling awake at our presence, we would've thought this like any other bazaar or market.

As if we were magnets, those who could walk, those who did not have nails or chains running through their ankles because of prior escape attempts, had glued themselves to the edges of their cages and all groaned, pleaded, spoke into one unidentifiable conversation of agony that was directed at us.

" _ **Whatthefuck, whatthefuck, whatthefuck?!**_ " the rifleman had felt himself overwhelmed as he twisted and turned in his saddle.

Broken teeth, faces, scars running across skin for punishment, regardless of age, gender, or species. Equality at its worst.

Bannon's eye that hadn't been underneath an eyepatch had clicked open wide as she realized why I had wanted to bring a palette of water bladders along with our horses in their saddles. "Give 'em out, quick."

The guards had been more interested in looking out than in, given some of them didn't want to owe out to the horrible trade they had presided over, so there was no trouble as the rifleman and Bannon had scrambled into their bags and saddle pouches, throwing out the unmarked bladders of water into the cages as I had waved my hand out and brought a finger to my lips. Even the slaves knew I was; to obey the command of silence as the sounds of water being passed around was heard.

I heard the sound of disembarking, and that alarmed me, if only because we might've needed to get out in a hurry. I let it pass however as I handed out my own stores of water across the slaves.

Bannon had gotten off her saddle real quick once she realized where one of her bladders had fallen before: a solitary cell.

A cell with only one child in it, and that child could not make a sound. Not because of what I had ordered, but because he couldn't at all. His mouth was sewn shut as he desperately tried to intake water into his system. I had imagined he had once been a screamer, a fighter, and as such, his mouth was sewn shut tightly.

Without thinking Bannon had drawn her knife toward the taut strings in this child's lips, but the child had recoiled away, his eyes, fearing not the knife or Bannon, but, as he had pointed out to the guards, reprisal to those who saw his mouth freed.

"Kay!" she had said raspily, motioning toward the child.

"We can't do anything. He'll find a use for it."

"We need to get him out of here."

"We need to get all of them out of here! I know! But we can't!"

"Then let me buy them! I have the money!" Bannon had sucked in her own lips as if regretting saying it, but I didn't' think too much about it. Maybe she had been doing some stuff on the side to earn her a few extra chips here and there.

"You want to buy slaves Lisa?"

"To free them!"

"That's not how you do it, Staff sergeant!" I had gotten off my horse as the remaining rifleman handed out the rest of the bladders. I grabbed her shoulders and puller her back a bit. "Where would you put them, huh? Send them, make them walk all the way back to the Corridor? Call in a Casevac to get a quarter of the population out? Because that's how many slaves are in this city, let alone the entire Empire."

"Sir. We have to do something." she had cleared her voice as she internally fought with herself, so she said it softly as she found her answer. Bannon was always logical like that when she found an answer.

"Dammit Bannon, you don't think I wonder about what happen to these people every night? I'm trying my best, got it? These people will walk as freemen eventually, mark my word. Five by five 1-1 Actual?"

She and Cam were very alike, I liked to think. As was why they got along so well. And that had meant they knew what had been the rightest right of the world, albeit from different perspectives. Because they both were right, I needed to do something more than keep these slaves alive.

But the time would come.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves; and, under a just God, can not long retain it._

 _Abraham Lincoln, US President, 1859_

* * *

"Are you sure none of these people are prisoners from back home?" Bannon asked as she painfully turn her back on the child, but not before dropping her hood completely, and showing herself as a woman. The child's eyes had watered for a second, but Bannon didn't see it as she had, for a reason beyond her, had gotten her necklace off her neck. The small cross on it had still been there, but she hadn't put too much faith into it. She wasn't a believer anyhow.

She had believed the priest who had visited her in a homeless shelter and given her that piece of jewelry one winter long ago about one thing however: _It's for those of you in need_. It didn't do much for her.

Quickly, she had thrown the necklace over the boy's neck after detaching her dog tags before turning away and back onto her horse.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Her question was a valid one Emerson had asked Pina herself too. Seeing as her father had assigned her to lead the investigation on us, the disaster at Ginza and Arnus, she would know. She told Emerson that none were taken prisoner.

She had given her word, as Emerson had given his own to free these people, one day.

"Captain?" the rifleman had called out.

"Yeah Ortiz?"

"What's with the bags of dough we have left?"

"Bannon will handle it."

"For what?"

"Do I need to remind you we are in the enemy capital? I think having an outpost here for the Special Task Force is within our interests. I've found one during my time here."

"Find anything else sir?"

"Asides from military targets? Just the common Roman society plus or minus a few oddities. Nutt might lose his god damn mind with the opium I'm seeing gathered."

"The good shit?"

"I wouldn't know anything about it, but ever since Italica fell the Imperials have been offering the usual cut of wheat that soldiers are paid in opium and gold. Italica was the god damned bread basket of this empire and we own it now."

"Isn't how starvation how the Roman Empire fell?" Bannon had asked lowly as she flipped her hood on again, motioning her body for her camera to get a good view of the low lit scene, fires illuminating what they could.

"It's how the city of Rome fell, yes, but the Empire? Bigger picture Bannon. Now come on. _**Heeyah**_!" Emerson had broken out into a gallop with a smack of the reins, Bannon and her rifleman just as hurried to leave the damned behind against their better nature.

* * *

We hitched the horses up outside a stone and brick building: four pillars holding it up where it had cut in from the street a bit, allowing something of an open air patio. Ticket of this thing was in my touring, and I had first touched upon this building during another rooftop outing with Seyton and Samnu, was that it was connected to the buildings on either side of it by holes in the wall.

Apparently a cult to Hardy had taken this building and all promptly committed the typical activities of a death cult from its walls. Needless to say that even the Crime Lords found this detestable when it cut into their activities.

Because of the general superstitious nature of the site it had been open for rent: one horse already hitched up. The landlord's apparently.

"Ortiz." I had hung my cape across the ass of my horse to make it known whose it was. "Keep overwatch of the… victors, alright?"

"Victors…" the code for vehicles in miltalk, Ortiz had considered it funny when applied to horses. "Right. Got it Reaper."

"Reaper?" he caught himself as he explained.

"Rory's been calling you that ever since you took her name in yours." he said to my surprise, I only shook my head as Bannon agreed, hitching her horse.

Bannon's throat rumbled in her growling. "She's trying to get me and Masterson to be her successors along with you, I swear. Keeps taunting us during training and the kill houses to go faster, to kill faster."

"Well. High speed, low drag?"

"Not for her…" she drifted off as she had ran her hand along the horse's neck. "Good breed. Princess Lada's?"

"Yeah."

"You're pretty good at riding a horse, let me tell ya'."

"Well it's Foulke that's doing most of the work." I patted my white horse's mane, a few cubes of sugar in my back gone into my gloves and fed into the animal's mouth, it whinnying compliantly.

"You named your horse after him?"

"Well, technically this is his personal horse. I've inherited everything that didn't go to his family. Emperor Molt made that decision."

"Rank too?"

"I can tell he's thinking about it, but Zorzal isn't a fan of me, and you know how nepotism works, right?"

"I can't tell if you just insulted me, sir."

"Well then tell me, sergeant, where'd you learn of your own housing skills?"

"My father?"

"And who got you into the business?"

"My mother?"

"And who gave you the loan to start up your own housing firm?"

"My broth- Alright, I get it, I get it."

"Do me a favor and tell me, you're friends with Lelei, what's the going rate of this place in the common currency?" We had put our palms on the columns, rough, having been incensed with whatever had come through the Akusho streets.

She leaned back into the middle of the street the same hand running along her chin as she saw what this building had to offer, deep in a trade of thought from a trade far in the past for her, but had come up more recently than not.

She remembered most distinctly from that old trade of leasing houses out was the process of failure on the people who had taken the leases out: of the colorful exchanges of getting those houses back by force, and seeing them cast out into the street.

How ironic it was when the same happened to her after the divorce.

The same strongmen she had used to get people out of their homes had manhandled her: throwing her into the back of that faithful pickup truck she had left for the last few years in some storage park right besides Masterson's motorcycle.

"Well, the neighborhood doesn't exactly leave the seller much wiggle room."

"Hey, you got a beautiful view of the Imperial Capital when they're not cremating the leftovers from lunch or the dragon riders are out in force."

"True…" she looked over the inset balcony on the second floor: the building three stories tall with a range of four windows along the top, a few of the covers worse for wear along with the shingles. Her mind had clashed between investor and soldier, carpentry and good cover in a firefight. "What's on the otherside?"

"It's back to back with a building on the other side, no entry or access."

"How about roof access?"

"I saw a few hatches."

"Masonry seems like it has seen better days."

"Calling our next base shabby?"

"I'm half blind and I can tell, captain, don't know why you seem so enthusiastic."

"We're the forward most unit of the Special Task Force right at this moment, sergeant, of course I'm enthusiastic."

"You know, I was getting more the bleeding heart, Charles Marlowe depressing feeling off of you from those letters you sent back."

"Everyone's a critic."

"…So, you want me to secure ownership of this building?"

"I want you to secure ownership of this building and then establish that we'll be taking over the whole neighborhood."

Bannon hadn't been one to be put off by any objectives, but still, she had to analyze them herself, her one eye exposed eye furrowing. "Tall order."

"For an embassy, PX location, and anything else we might need? Yeah, it is. I know you can do it though."

"If you wanted someone to talk, you should've gotten Cam. I don't do negotiations like this, I only handle and argue once the document is on the table already… what's the Plan B?"

"I throw the Royalty card down."

"Plan C?"

"Force."

"When Italica happened, was that our Plan C?"

"I like to think so. Still, rather resolve this the right way."

"Wish Lelei was here… but alright, I'll see what I can do."

They had entered the wooden double doors, right foot first. The left one was used for unclean places or cemeteries: a holdover of American SOP in the Middle East, translated to another foreign land.

The dealer had been there before we had fully adjusted to the well-lit insides. Bannon had almost went for her gun as a man in thick white garb, almost like an Arab man on some level, had opened his arms to us and cheered that we were here.

"Ah! Demon Lord! The Father of Sin! I hear you are interested in owning some of my wonderful property!" I had stopped the impulse to reach out my hand and shake, instead I had reached out a hand and he had kissed it in reverence. "I would be honored to serve someone who is so well liked by the royal family!"

"Of course. But I'll have to hand off the negotiations to one of my most trusted lieutenants, dear sir."

"Ah!" he said jovially, looking around, ignoring the fact Bannon had been at my side, equally, no greeting given to her. "Where is he?" he asked.

Bannon had simply shook her head and threw back the hood again, her eyepatch over her bad eye again, thick hair made into a pony tail.

"There she is, sir."

The man was taken aback, but me, and more importantly, her, would be much more offended if anything was said regarding who was speaking on my behalf.

Me and her grinned in some devious way before she had gotten right to it.

* * *

Multiple rooms, the holes to the accompanying buildings had been covered up rather cleverly with book cases. Generally a blank slate, if not unimaginative in what this building had wanted to be. It was built more like some medieval equivalent of an office building, clinic, or half-way house.

What was left by the death cult had been the beds they had laid on as they bled out from their occasional suicides and wounds made during crimes and murders. Those sheets had been replaced, more or less. Still, all the scrubbing in the world couldn't get some of the stains out from the creases of the wooden floor and the stone.

"Look. I understand 600 Denarii is a fair price. That I'm content with given the size of this building and the fact it seems like an entire family can make it here, given a breadwinner's general income in this area. I know back at the Corridor we have leases on houses going for fifteen and twenty five for individual condos and houses…"

"What is the housing market like at that place anyway? I might end up moving there if these rumors of another empire coming here are true. Better to be on the winning side than anything."

"Eh, there's a… monopoly with whoever owns the houses and land over there. Still, they give fair prices."

"Are you intimately familiar?"

"Familiar enough to know that I'm paying something for "Security" or "insurance", am I not? I thought I was just buying the property, sir?" Bannon's rising voice levels had made the man reconsider who he was talking with as Emerson simply had taken his M16 and looked for firing positions upstairs. Also he had been doing that to regain a feel for a modern weapon, not to any discredit to his Winchester with its recent addition of bone to its stock.

"Ah, right, you're new to this area, aren't you?" the man had said as he had laid out the scroll with the terms of the deal. It was mostly a done deal, with what Bannon arguing incessantly about how bad the neighborhood was and that it went against "her culture" to be surrounded by the inherent violence of Aksuho. It was the first deal made for this building a while, and, using the recent political climate of fear that had come over with the loss of half the Imperial Army and this new foe on the horizon, there was credence to the man wanting to move away from the Capital.

"There are several notable crime lords in this area. The only reason why I am able to keep my head selling property around here is that a large portion of my sales goes towards them in the form of my insurance payments."

"I don't suppose I can decline those payments?"

"If you want to die sure. Even Kay Ro Bronxon, as an aspiring apostle that he is, is not safe from then."

"Kay's not in the running for the apostles. If he was capable of being in the running, so is his entire people, me included."

"Still, my point is that you don't want to make enemies with these crime lords."

"And what if I do?"

"As I said, I always prefer to be on the winning side."

"Well I'm not paying for that insurance, I make my own security."

"Your loss."

With her quill and ink Bannon had simply crossed off the number and settled the price at 600 Denarii for the whole lot. Not the 2000 with the insurance.

It wasn't completely outlandish that such deals were being made like this outright. In the Middle East and North Korea, part of the boost in the local economies preformed by the conquering forces had been the injection of cash in any way possible for the civilian populace.

The land which bases were established on were rented from their owners, shops and bazaars opened up with investments and security, jobs provided to get the civilians away from the insurgent forces, and, in the most unfortunate and often most tangible way, condolence funds to families who had lost family members in the war.

In Afghanistan, the running rate was the equivalent of 1500 USD for a dead family member.

In the Special Region in Italica, it was roughly the same in Japanese Yen.

How funny, that a minimum wage of the equivalent of 5 Denarii had been established by the Special Task Force. Twice the usual from before the Japanese came.

Economics was Bannon's specialty, and despite how much she had appreciated the minimum wage, doubling it so quickly via the transaction conversions with the Japanese Yen would also, she knew, would impact the global economy. Japan had just added another world to their economy, for better or, most likely, worse. She had thought she had been lucky to have been kicked out of the market during the Chinese bubble pop, after all. This was another monster.

Still, she had her own stake, and she would work with it.

She signed the document quickly with little ceremony. She was now, finally, a homeowner in some twisted way.

"You own the rest of the block?"

"It was my father's property, actually, he was the former lord of this section of Akusho, but he died six months ago during the conquests that took him to Arnus. I've requested the papers to travel there so I could pay my respects and perhaps collect his remains, but I've been denied."

"What if I told you there was a place for you to stay there? That you wouldn't want to be in the Imperial Capital otherwise?"

"I still have considerable wealth here, though. I'd be hard pressed to par-"

"I'll buy it all."

"…What?"

"I'll buy all the rights and documents within reason. On top of that I can guarantee you passage to Italica and Arnus Hill. A better life."

"I'm not quite sure I believe you, and even then, I doubt that you could drum up the amount of cash to make it worth my while."

Bannon had disregarded the no-factors. "How fast would you be able to leave if I bought what I require from you and give you a Royal stamp letting you leave?"

"Well, I suppose as soon as tomorrow afternoon, but I fail to-"

Bannon had drawn her phone, the strange looking slab to the Imperial making him pause midsentence as Bannon laid it out on the table: pictures of the Corridor and all of its safety and wealth laid out: Italica's signature Keep in the background. A healthy community of children in the streets playing, no menacing guards or downtrodden walkers. Granted the sunny weather where this was taken had helped that out.

"By what manner of magic is this-?"

"It is the promise of a new life outside of this filth. I'm offering you an opportunity here to help us, and we always help out those who offer us a hand in this new land."

"We?"

"You said you want to be on the winning side, right? So how about those deeds?"

* * *

 _ **The Special Region - The Imperial Capital, Sadera Hill - Royal Palace - Eastern Mansion**_

* * *

The payment, and the travel document stamp, would be delivered on the way back. However the larger payment and the stamp itself had been at Sadera Hill at Pina's mansion.

The horsemen didn't waste much time in full gallop. They were due back at the garden by at least the morning. Still, there was little traffic up to the hills of royalty, even as the faintest glow of the horizon in the distance had dimly lit the architecture of azure power, Bannon and her rifleman were impressed by the marble their captain had called his home for the last month.

"What do you think it would be like to see this place burn?" the rifleman had asked as they left their horses at the foot of the mansion.

"Plan C, Corporal Ortiz, Plan C. Both of you, stay here, just gotta pick up a few things."

He took off up the white steps fast enough, leaving the two Rangers there in the shadows of a dying night.

"You seem rather proud of yourself, ma'am." the rifleman had said once as he had adjusted his optics in the wait. Bannon had tilted her head over to one of her squad in some bashful smirk.

"Ah, it's nice to know I'm not entirely useless once I leave the service."

"Leave? Hell. Ain't an option for me." the man had said lightly, having accepted his supposed future.

"Any reason why?"

"One of the first texts I got from my girlfriend was that she was calling me a murderer and what not once she found out I was over here, wrecked all my possessions and what not. Family ain't helping worth a damn. I rather be in this mess than the one back home."

"Least you got a family to go back to Ortiz."

"Meh. If the rest of my life was like this, preforming whiskey delta ops for royalty, I wouldn't mind it... Like, I don't know, here I'm some sort of eternal vacationer with a time machine or some shit, able to ignore all those bullshit time travel rules with a splash of beautiful exotic ladies and fairy tales."

"I suppose I understand..."

"Besides, you're all my family, ma'am."

"Don't pull that moto BS on me Ortiz."

"Well shit, I don't know how sergeant Masterson ever got through to you."

The two had shared some sort of chuckle as they shook their heads and waited.

The sound of rapturous activity had cut through the quiet air as Bannon and her rifleman had stayed their feet near the horses, the animals clearly not as disturbed by the sounds of someone being bedded slowly being turned into a very, very audible struggle and rape.

" _ **For- forgive me my lord!**_ " had cut through the air that had finally made the Rangers not ignore it.

Those sounds had been emanating from the courtyard just besides Pina's eastern faced mansion. A quick dash and the two Americans would be there to investigate what was going on.

Worry had been written plainly on both of their faces in the dark. Enough, from squad lead to squaddie, to communicate non-verbally to check it out. They knew their way around Imperials at that point, given their current residence with Myui and the Rose Order in Italica. The cloaks would cover them in all ways, anyway.

Bannon had pulled the slide back on her M4 as Ortiz had pressed her shoulder once with his palm, falling in line with her as the two dashed across the paths toward the sounds of some sort of battle. The southern facing mansion had been Prince Zorzal's. Not that any of the Rangers had known that bar Emerson, the bedroom of his an extension of one of the mansion's extended wings, bubbling out in something of a rotunda with a balcony not too high off the ground.

Ortiz had put his shoulder against the wall as he bent over, Bannon jumping up onto his back as Oritz pushed up to give her the reach to grab onto the stone ledge, she going over the railing before going back and extending a hand, the rifleman being hauled up and over as the sounds of an unsavory act, of thrashing and flesh was just beyond an ornate grate.

Quite simply the sound of begging and regret had mixed with the sound of ravaging, and the forms that they could see in the dark past the obscuring grate held no secrets sans their identity.

 ** _"SQUEAL_**. What's wrong!? Surely you can squeal louder than that!"

And the woman behind the grate had screamed.

That was all that it took for the two soldiers to round the balcony to inside the building. They primed their lungs to scream in the lingua franca, and soon enough Ortiz had banged on the great ornate door of the bedroom chambers with the butt of his rifle.

What right did the Rangers have in intervening in such a domestic case? Well, as Bannon had thought, they weren't here as Rangers. They were here as Emerson's pupils, honorary members of the Rose Order and equals to him by blood. To be a Ranger was a privilege, as she thought, and she had hidden that privilege as Ortiz's banging had made whatever what was happening on the other side stop, great, sweaty footsteps having made a bed creak as their owner got off, and made their own path to the door.

The door opened, and came the stench of sweaty musk. It was a torrid smell, the smell of struggle and exertion. Bannon had spoken before the man's face had been fully revealed. "What the hell is go-"

Prince Zorzal was an imposing figure: taller than Emerson, Kurokawa, and most of the Marines and Rangers. Perhaps Harris would've been his equal in size and build. But it wasn't the build of Zorzal in all of its naked and husky presentation that night to the two Rangers that had made Bannon pause.

The face was familiar, out of pure coincidence. That genetic lottery had hit Bannon on the head hard as she saw with her one uncovered eye the face of her ex-husband on this prince's form.

She tripped, her voice, for all of its grit and grumble, had never missed a beat in her enunciation and flow. That is until now, today, her words flowing up and down as her two selves fought. "What the hell is going on in there?"

Ortiz had seen the uncharacteristic stumble, he not feeling the fear that Bannon, just for a second, felt when she looked at this man in the eyes.

Zorzal had raised his eyebrows, no shame given to his exposure to the two.

"Who dares-... Oh. More of the Darkie's fellow soldiers." he said, grinded through his teeth, the ambient noise to the dead silence of the conversation being the stressed laboring of the bunny woman on the bed. Bannon and her rifleman had recognized the species. Delilah was of the same sort. "Is there a problem?" he asked, caught in the middle of his deed, but not caring. There was no injustice in his eye.

"Son of a bitch looks like the ex." Bannon had creakily muttered to Ortiz in English.

Upon the accidental reveal that Bannon had an ex-husband, her soldiers had understood what that meant to what they knew of her story. Ortiz had known just as well why the furrow in her gaze had been strained by a different kind of stress, a hole, which she had thought she had covered up. Bannon was not treated well as a wife, and that explained some of the scars that never went away for her.

He had taken over. "We heard someone in distress. We were inclined to believe..." he leaned around Zorzal to get a good view of who he was bedding, and the view on that woman's gaze had been, for but a second, absolutely desperate.

"A bunny warrior." Bannon had finally let out after she recomposed herself. "I wasn't aware that there was one in the Imperial Capital, with the prior wars."

As Pina had learned of the modern world's history, the modern people had learned of this world's, the empire's, history.

"Heh. Between me and you, us civilized people, regardless of our different Empires, I consider her my own personal prize."

"Is she your slave?"

"She wants to be here. **_Right Tyuule?!_** "

"Tyuule?" the sergeant had said under her breath quietly, all her previous shakiness wracked out as she heard the name of the woman under a much more present threat.

Bannon had blinked as she had heard that name before, from Lelei's own tea talk, about the maids who had delivered them their drinks and biscuits during those comfortable afternoons. Lelei and Myuui, given their age, had gotten along rather well. The assets of the father were all transfered to the lordess, and to be fair, she was doing a pretty good job in fulfilling her father's throne. The Marines had made it easy as long as she listened to Sevson. So along with the funds, the town, and the honors, she was given the maids fully.

Lelei had remarked once, upon seeing Delilah again in her usual maid outfit, serving them tea. It was a stark contrast from who she really was. The greatest comparison between the Bunny Warriors of the Eastern Plains would've been, to Bannon, the Russian Cossacks. They could not live without war and conflict, however, when a foe had finally conquered them, their leader had given herself up and sold her own people out apparently. She was a lucky one to come udner the Fromars.

And her people were destroyed, slaved out and left to wither away to history and conquest underneath an Imperial scheme. Foulke had made sure of it with Zorzal behind him. Little did Emerson know that the lining of his armor had been the skin of those bunny warriors. And those that would survive would owe their own inner hatred, a phantom pain, to the leader that sold them out:

The traitor. The fallen ruler. The object of Prince Zorzal's nightly subjectifications.

Queen Tyuule.

There she was drenched in sweat, fluids, that were not outright her own, chained to the bed.

"Y- yes! I want to be here! I have no other place to go but Prince Zorzal's merciful side!" she had croaked in a broken voice. Only Bannon and Zorzal had known the weight of who she was truly. Her one eye widened as she could not conceal that fact.

"What? Jealous of her?" Zorzal had invited. Bannon had grit her teeth as Ortiz stepped forward, his rifle just barely, barely, hidden underneath his cloak. "Perhaps America will know soon too, of Imperial might and men."

"She's not supposed to be here. This is disgraceful." Bannon had said, ignoring the threat to the homeland.

"Well, regardless of what honor there is, it is my right to keep her here. But let's keep that secret within the Royal family, alright? Seeing as you all so like Pina, I'll let you know she is okay with it... Now leave. I have someone to attend to. I don't take kindly to people interrupting us, but given my status as an enlightened individual, I must be tolerant of foreigners."

The door was slammed in their faces, and no sooner had that echo subsided, the abuse in the room had started again as the two Rangers were left speechless on how normal, how inconsequential, it was for this prince to do so.

There was only one thing holding them back, and if they had known who else had been chained, behind that door, they would've followed through with busting it down and doing what they wanted.

The one thing holding them back, was that the current victim was not of their own colors. Just another Special Region inhabitant. To think this purposely was not the reason, because they did not think of it like that, but it was an intrinsic, a deeply hidden habit of action.

To otherize individuals, to make them not like you.

It was what had made Bannon and her rifleman shut their eyes tightly and simply stand there, and listen, before turning away and facing a captain that came from the shadows, watching this happen from the black.

"Everynight I go to bed to the sound of this shit. I hear it. Her screams. Her begging. I know what he has done to her, and her people." Emerson had said coldly, arms crossed over the armor of one dead man he had made pay for his deeds. Of all the things he had learned in this Capital, of this Empire, the reasons that justified a war were the ones that unfortunately stuck out.

"And yet...?" Bannon knew why. He had a cover.

"I can't. But as I said. Their time will come."

"You at least beat the shit out of him in combat?" she asked, trying to get his horrible scent out of her senses along with the memory of a man long gone, come back to taunt her psychologically.

"I don't know how Foulke trained him, but he's been able to square off with me better than his sister... I don't want to take him on, but we'll have to." There was humility in his words, unsure regret of a war yet to be fought.

"Why?" she said, unbelieving. In all her years in the military, as a Ranger, she had thought Emerson pretty damned good. Better than her, even.

"He's second in line, and once the Emperor is out of the picture for even a second, he'll be up there." he stated.

"But what would you do to him, captain?" the rifleman had asked as one shriek had made their ears ring. Emerson had left it unanswered as they had enough of it, turning away into the dark of the halls, leaving another behind against their better nature. Doing nothing.


	23. 2-5: Borders and Boundaries

A/N: I was really considering splitting this chapter into two, that and I got the vibe to go to the bottle again when doing this, because I really wanted to get on to the next to chapters with all the rooty tooty point and shooty stuff. But here it is. All thirty pages of it. Anway, review responses.

Shintokyo - Just wait and see, alright?

Blond Dude 42 - Eh, well, you tried, and I appreciate it.

Mike - No.

Cerberusx - I went through a lot of songs for that, and I'm not particularly sure if I was happy with keeping Seven Nations Army, because I went through Paint it Black, Gimme Shelter, and All Along the Watchtower. I think it was my decision to have something a bit more modern that won out in the end, that and the particular remix I mentioned sounds very, very aggressive.

Guest, on US Presence - America has several bases on Japanese soil, the one I mention the most is Yokota AFB about thirty miles from Tokyo, that and there's always been an American military presence in Japan certainly highlights the amount America puts down in the Special Region.

Guest, on the moral faction dilemma - Give it time. That and I've always been an advocate of everyone being wrong at some point in war, but I do see a very interesting point you made on the matter of "one-upping" being the only way I value or devalue the various sides in this story, thanks.

Malus - I have no idea what you're talking about. Emerson's orientation is brought up in throw away lines in only about four something occasions across 200k_ words so far in a story where he's a main character. I think it's an important little tidbit to throw in about him, that and I've always imagined he crushes on Itami occasionally. Look, if you want to be a homophobe, fine, but you didn't need to outright say it because I got the message before hand, you're prejudices aren't that important.

Guest, on Generation Kill - This story and Generation Kill are acquired tastes admittedly, I don't blame you for thinking about it like that.

Boss12 - Thanks, here it is.

TheBleachDoctor - Thanks, but you give me too much credit, occasionally I drop the ball with translating from the source material to this story, like this chapter, I think.

BlakithLeo - Yeah, I felt really clever fitting that song title in. One of the tanks are gonna get a name change however, courtesy of Here We Go Again

Thanks for all who are reading, I'm short of 40k views and wow-we that's a lot for anything. Now I've got fifteen days before Season 2 kicks off, if I don't see you before New Years, and as is Emerson's and Itami's usual favorite saying to each other: see you on the other side.

...

Jesus Christ this chapter just goes on and on

* * *

 ** _Section 2-5_**

* * *

Masterson's swipe at Shino's cheek had just barely missed as she had used the missed strike to grab his wrist and bend it forward into a lock.

The Texan had tried to bring his knee up into her gut, but her free forearm had deflected his leg down, throwing him off balance as he was tossed onto the dirt, back first. Her knee had gone right on his neck as she had drawn her pistol, racked it against her leg, and pointed it right next to Masterson's head.

Loke had used her leg in a sweep to kick the handgun away as Shino had forgotten about another opponent.

As another one of Loke's legs had tried to swipe her instead this time, she had grabbed it, pushed it back down even as Loke tried to grab the woman by the waist backward.

The gator roll that had followed had knocked Loke out entirely, she hitting the garden ground to the sound of polite applause as in the background Emerson had been taking on Tomita, he having shed his disguise as Foulke's successor and, generally, as Kay Ro Bronxon.

Tomita was a bigger man than Emerson, and despite the fact he too had been a JSDF Ranger, Emerson's experience alone had made him use the butt of his rifle as an extender of his form when they had been chest to chest.

As Emerson had called out and challenged Foulke, so too had the Empire's greatest warriors come to the arena and called his name to prove his worth as a mysterious "American". More often than not he had let them live, but still, there was a special few who would not give up on that gladiator field and had to be put down.

Some of them had been officers like Foulke, beasts who thought they could beat the "dark elf" that he had been, but many were over their own heads with the way Emerson fought: with his scarred hands.

If it hadn't been that it was that mystical weapon: dressed up in Foulke's bones.

Many had tried to experiment ways to counter it, but if the Germans or North Koreans weren't able to devise a proper way to do so in the modern, they had no such luck in this world. Most of them anyway, bar the occasional magic user.

Still, at that point it was the volume of fire that counted above all.

* * *

 _ **Six Months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day+44**_

 _ **The Special Region – Outskirts of the Imperial Capital – Imperial Gardens**_

* * *

Either way the cookie crumbled, and Emerson had either proved his non-lethal point or trimmed the officer corps of the Imperial Legion to his favor. Those that survived would often see it his way.

It was how Kouji and Emerson had survived these last few weeks after all: they kept to their own methods in their shared goals. Which, in laymen's terms, meant that they didn't talk to each other.

Tomita had taken the hit to his chest hard, his form locking up and hitting the ground as only Bannon, Shino, and Emerson were left standing.

Naturally Bannon had gone after the easier target, Emerson's right arm being dragged back, locked, and her palm put on his chest as he was slammed down: sending dust flying up.

What had been left had been the two women: the two rivals.

Bannon's boot had kicked Emerson's fallen M16 into the air by its stock, she taking in hand as it flew, Shino simply taking a knife in her hand alongside her sidearm.

"This is only the second time this has happened, Sergeant Kuribayashi." Bannon had said as she had slowly began to circle around Shino, the other woman doing the reverse, keeping her distance.

"Really? I don't quite remember the first."

"Ah. Hakone."

"…What?"

Bannon had ejected the empty magazine from Emerson's M16 into her palm as she threw it as Shino, the woman ducking, dropping her stance long enough for Bannon to close the distance and poke the top of her head the with muzzle, Shino's head being dragged back, but not before she had owned it and fallen onto her back, springing her legs out into Bannon's stomach.

The kick had missed however as she shuffled back, Shino popping back up, forearm shoving the barrel and the weight of the gun right and leaving Bannon's chest exposed for her knife: a rubber knife, to dive down after a quick twirl.

The fake blade had barely bent as it found Bannon's collarbone, the two women frozen as they knew what it had meant: Shino smiling triumphantly, mischievously.

She didn't have a badge for hand to hand combat for nothing,

"And why are you the one called Demon Lord, Captain Emerson?" Shino had boasted as the crowd had clapped softly, the men, and especially the women, interested at the fact a person of their gender had won and had sent the supposed Father of Sin down to the ground with little trouble.

Father of Sin was the name Emerson was known by the Imperials, and very few had gotten used to his men and women calling him by his proper title: Captain Emerson.

He groaned as he had cracked his shoulder back to feeling right. "If you want to go to the coliseum and go prove your worth, Sergeant Kuribayashi, then be my guest, until then, well…"

Bannon had been slightly annoyed, a twitch over her one, unpatched eye staring at the blade that had just barely prodded her skin above her collar bone, over the faintest of scars preformed on her larynx so long ago that had made her voice so ragged today. She shook her head once, disappointed at herself as she was used to doing. "Good job, Shino."

All that the JSDF sergeant had done was wink as Masterson had helped Loke up, Emerson hauling Tomita up and brushing his broad shoulders.

"You too can learn self-defense techniques from certified professional killers for one easy payment of 19.99!" Masterson's sarcastic groaning had been highlighted as he had sniffed in the fresh air of the rather nice garden party that had been ongoing.

The impromptu demonstration of the Father of Sin's particular type of fighting had drawn a rather sizable crowd away from the food line and the other attractions today to that little clearing where Shino and Emerson's practice had been, at Pina's insistence, turned into a free for all brawl.

"Nineteen ninety nine?" one of the women from the crowd had asked, Masterson pulling back and merely explaining he was making jest as he straightened out his kit, reapplying his Stetson and pulling out a used apron with the words: "Kiss the cook" personally sewn in by him in the lingua franca.

"Hey, Kay, mind if I head back to the grill?" he asked as he brushed himself off from the skirmish.

"You know, Itami actually has a cook on his team." Bannon had said as she had idly looked over the stitched words.

"Yeah, but I don't want Furuta to have all that good meat to himself. That Kouji guy actually got us Kobe beef!" Kouji had been diligently sitting on a chair in front of the tent where they had kept the provisions for this picnic, making sure nothing left and no one went in without due process.

Furuta Hitoshi, or rather, Hitoshi Furuta to the Americans, had been one of RCT3's members. A private, he had come into the military long before the Ginza incident. The Ginza Incident however, had made his membership personal. He had been just about to claim ownership of a restaurant in the hotly contested Ginza district as the head chef.

As it panned out however, a Type10's 120 millimeter gun had blew it up after a horde of legionnaires had tried to fortify it during their last stand.

He had something that had made him much for graceful than Itami, or most of Hitman for that matter: He was not here on the hidden auspices of revenge.

Itami never forgot the orphans that day, the young children whose parents were not saved and how he felt responsible for that loss.

Hitman, Emerson and Masterson especially, had never forgotten O'Neal and his family. How they had lost a brother and his family in such a bloody display.

However, granted it wasn't a human life, Furuta had lost his livelihood. Still, he was at peace: he had mentioned he couldn't have done anything about it, and seeing as he was in the position that he was in the Special Region, he had figured that he had a much greater, more gracious, customer pool to introduce his own wonderful cooking to.

One restaurant in the Special Region that had sprouted up was in his name, after all.

Needless to say Bannon had been happy for the man finding his own place in this world. It had made her optimistic for her own future.

Masterson, and Bannon too, had once been fry cooks in their wandering past. Needless to say that even Bannon had bowed herself out after a gracious handshake around. She wasn't one to turn up a good steak or burger.

If it hadn't been for the fact that the objective for the day had been avoiding genocide by strong arming war clamoring senators and their wives, it would've been a good day.

But, as Masterson had been so eager to cite as an example of the modern world's poetry to the locals, "If you do not need to use an AK, it is a good day."

The translation had added a little bit to Emerson's notoriety though, the royals and the senators distinctly hearing and interpreting it as "If Kay is around, it is not a good day."

"The main objective of modern military CQC is simply this: to get your enemy on the ground as soon as possible and to either a.) acquire a weapon or b.) hope your friends get there first." Shino had rattled off as Emerson had patted Tomita on the back once or twice in good nature, Shino drawing the crowd to her as she described how exactly to beat someone's face in.

As he walked away he had swept around and saw his guards in the slightly chilly day, it being the end of the summer season in the Special Region, or, at least, the continent they were on.

The cloaks were still on, standing ever vigilantly: soldiers of the Special Task Force hidden in plain sight when not occupied with the guests. They were rugged cloaks, the same sort worn by the Imperial Guard, and their design had been made by Pina for Emerson's sake: some mutation of her own Rose Order's emblem that she had designed after the NATO compass, a design she had seen and sketched in her journal that she still kept, adding more and more to it.

Of those things had been the people there today: Hitman and RCT3, Itami and Emerson especially.

Itami had been the Japanese Hero of Ginza, and she had been mystified on how he, a comparatively nicer and simpler man than Emerson, had shared the title with him and Sergeant Masterson. She read of his deeds, and she was impressed that he was still who he was while Emerson had been getting older by the day, it seemed.

It must've been an American thing, she had reckoned. Still, the difference between the two men, despite their rather close friendship, was jarring. It had only made her tell Bozes back at Italica and the Corridor to put some research into who had taught the two.

For Itami, no information could be found minus what his training entailed, but for Emerson, Bozes had found details on a "Major Walker". Those details had come from Lelei, and they had yet to be translated, however the mage had made a point in making sure Bozes smuggled those documents right this time.

Bozes had said no worry to it, she hadn't even started translating them.

Peters had been entertaining the more musically inclined senators and the children with his own guitar playing. Khan, the dog, more than wonderful with the attention he was getting as a genetically engineered force of nature in the form of German Shepard. However Khan's old, albeit trained, habits had taken the better part of him, the shepherd immediately sniffing out and growling at any of the locals who had knives on them.

In the month since he had come over, Khan had been a general favorite, and the harbinger, for further of the US Military dogs that had come over to help patrol the Corridor. One of the task force had once remarked that it must've been weird for the more canine humanoids to encounter the dogs, but the follow up from one such humanoid was that it was no more the humans with apes and monkeys.

Otherwise Loke and Kuro had been prettying up ladies with modern makeup and of the like with a few of the other combat women, Furuta, Bannon, and Masterson going at the erected dining tent with the intent of winning the hearts of the people through their stomachs with the help of a few maids from Pina's own house.

Black and Doc had been attending to setting up the weapons demonstrations with the rest of RCT3 that would be performed after lunch if they hadn't been busy with other pleasantries. Itami knew how to ball apparently: volleyball.

Before dawn had fully come and before the three soldiers had returned from the Capital, Itami had radioed in to Arnus command regarding a few extra bonuses that they would be operating with: their vehicles.

A C-130 had flown over in the dark with little ceremony and dropped off the three battle tested vehicles before morning came, camo nets thrown over them and shoved behind some bushes just in case.

Itami had popped up behind Emerson before he could notice, the slight surprise of seeing him again after a month rather jarring to him. "Kay."

"Youji." he smiled.

The two had walked toward a flat portion of the rolling fields and hills that had been spotted by the gardens from the various royal and senatorial families. It was still within the perimeter of the garden party, bustling in its affairs as modern and Roman clashed in a rather amiable display for once: formal wear on both sides brought out for once for those who did not need to wear otherwise.

Itami had been in his dress uniform, and, in a sense, so had Emerson with his kit above Foulke's rather snug chest armor. The general's uniform was formal enough.

Around them had been the surroundings of a Roman era: in the distance the aqueducts of Rome had been here as well, delivering water to that massive sprawl that survived four hundred more comparative years than the Roman Empire.

"How is being a Roman anyhow?" There was enough privacy as they had stood on the side of a hill, facing out toward a small valley on the outskirts, one of RCT3 and two Rangers patrolling it in their disguise and cover ups. Itami had portioned some of his squad off for security at the only real entrance to the garden from the Capital, and they had been taking notes of each and every guest, ready to pop off a shot if one didn't belong.

Not that they were anticipating such visitors and such drastic responses.

Emerson had rolled his neck around, getting the criks out along the padded edges of the collar, half dismissive, half unsure. "You know, I always had this perception of soldiers in war."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm an Army Ranger for crying out loud. I feel like I'm supposed to be, I don't know, fighting Russians, kicking in doors of shacks in the Korean wilderness for the odd hold out or two, or out there in the Sandbox… but instead I'm just…" he waved his arms out a bit before letting them go and smack against his side. "Soldiers shouldn't be doing this kind of work. I shouldn't be doing this kind of work."

He had seen the marvels of Roman engineering done by the Imperials, great works of rotundas, bath houses, arenas and halls that betrayed his eyes. Some of the Marines, past calling the Imperials Hadjis just out of old habits, had been calling these people uncivilized.

Emerson hadn't agreed in the slightest. These people were beyond civilized in their own sense: the apex civilization of the time they existed in.

"You sound like you're complaining for once Kay." Itami's sneering had only egged Emerson on to get his e-cigar, the lesser of two evils going between his lips and the man drawing slow, biding his time, rubbing his wrist across his forehead in a vain attempt to get rid of some unseen headache.

He returned to the original question as he had looked at the e-cigar, and now how pale it seemed compared to the real deal. "Being a Roman is alright, I think. One meal a day, usually dinner. Everything is on the emperor's dime. People love me when I'm not being a pain in their ass. That and the royals feel as important as ever with me and Kouji around, as if they're getting into something bigger than themselves."

"I take it you learned a great deal?"

Itami had taken his own cigarettes out of the pocket of his dress shirt, joining Kay in the smoke break, staring out into green pastures that the world on the other side of the Gate had been hard pressed to find nowadays.

"You know me Youji. I'm a fast learner."

"Eh, fast? More like never ending. Never know how to quit, as I hear."

"It ain't a bad thing you know." Most of his life Emerson had either been in school or higher academia.

"Didn't say it was."

A drag had been synchronized as the wind came between them, highlighting the comfortable silence. "How've you been man?" Emerson had asked in English. Itami had long been used to speaking with Emerson across two languages, and he had understood his fast, Bronx version of American English a bit better because of it.

He had looked at the cigarette between his fingers. "Alright, I guess. Last few weeks have been weird. Got enough time on the down low to catch up on some issues."

"That all?"

"Well, I guess I'm out on the town, more often than not. Lieutenant General Hazama wants me out there to just be me to the locals."

"Orders?"

"Orders."

"Would you be doing that without orders from Hazama?"

Itami had rolled is neck around as he tilted his head, contemplating as the cigarette burned between his fingers. "I like to think so. It's rather exciting, seeing people like this. There's something so interesting about living in this world that makes…" Itami had motioned to Emerson's bone stocked Winchester. "Well, it makes the blood worth it."

"If you just want to say outright this reminds you of some god damn fantasy anime or manga, just say so Youji." Emerson had said straight.

"Well, put it like that, then yeah. It does. I mean, my country doesn't have the oppurunity to go out in the world and use its armed services to help the international community, so, if I think of it like that, I'm proud."

"Sounds like your life is turning out alright, ain't it?"

Itami opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out as he simply shut his jaw back closed and nodded. Emerson had sounded just a hint accusing in it; disappointed.

The smoking that followed had been silent until he had picked it up again.

"It's nice."

"The weather?" Emerson tried to clarify.

"Serving."

Emerson laughed once. "Whatever happened to it just being a way to pay for your hobby huh?"

"Still is. Just, realized once I'm actually out here… it's fulfilling, you know? Never really thought of the military like this. Seeing all these people wanting to learn from us, doing their best to try and follow _**us**_ , it feels..."

"Nice." Emerson completed. The bubbling enthusiasm Itami had through his explanation was not reflected in his superior. Of course it was nice, there was no disaster for them brewing, no war being fought actively that wasn't one of words.

Emerson wouldn't have felt anything.. The White Man's Burden had been cut out of his heart, and most of America's, a long time ago.

Still, something replaced it.

" _ **You gave them the whole world, and still, they're dragging you here because of it."**_

Emerson dropped his e-cigar as he heard an echo in his mind, blinking hard and fast, turning around and looking over his shoulders as he picked it up. "Ah- did ya say something, Youji?"

"What?"

He looked over his shoulder. No one in speaking distance except for Itami. "Nothing… so, did Mei Com come out of that hiatus yet or….?"

* * *

Masterson had flipped over a patty on the grill as Bannon had put down a steak to sear, several of the women, and one or two guys, taking up the written instructions on Masterson's apron for the fare of getting one of his burgers or one of Bannon's steaks.

In proper regulation shave, Masterson had been liable to look like the "Whiskey Tango" that his captain had called him on occasion, but he never preferred his grooming like that, in all honesty. Not that the merits of military regulation had left him much choice.

Now however had been different.

He kept his hair properly groomed, combed over to accentuate the volume and fluffiness of his hair that had made the man quite handsome. Doc was jealous of the man's full head of hair, but not so much of the handlebar moustache he had played with for the first two weeks. That had been gone leaving nothing but a barely fuzzy trim around his jaw and lips.

It was enough to keep him in a hair net along with Bannon, her hazelnut hair still in a ponytail that had been so unlike her.

A woman who had taken one of the burgers from him had ruffled his hair as she had pecked the man, Furuta looking at him humorously as he simply kept shelling out bowls of soup and Yakitori meat, fashioned to be "that" meat from anime origin.

Masterson had politely let the kiss come and go as he waved her on, no one, at the moment, coming for another order as he crossed his arms and sat on the set up table next to Bannon, the woman concentrating more on the Kobe than anything else.

"Sorry." he simply said as he had tucked his arms in.

"Huh?" Bannon had said in return, poking the cut over with a fork, feeling the crust form from the other side before taking a rather sharp spatula and cutting it into portions.

"About, you know, this." he grazed his hand over the inscription on his apron.

"Why would I care?"

"Don't know why, but I know you do."

She had paused, her face blank as she had pinched salt over the yet to be grilled portions, the fat marbling lines across the meat like the clouds about that day.

"And yet you and your bromance with the captain doesn't elicit that response?"

"Oh come on Lisa. Kay's our own third wheel. I love the guy in a way that's different from how I love you."

She had winced, but not in a bad way. It was just something she had to get used to again. She flicked a morsel of meat onto her plate to testing, her fork again stabbing it. "How many times have we said that now?"

"Eh. Last I checked fifteen for me, four-ish for you."

"Remind me. When was the first time, after we met up again?"

With the establishment of the 4th Ranger Battalion to the 75th Ranger Regiment, there was finally a Ranger battalion to spare in that war crazed world. The 3rd and 1st Ranger Battalions had been destroyed in North Korea and Iran more or less, and their reorganization had left the 2nd hard pressed to maintain operational capacity in the Middle East by themselves. The 4th had been established shortly following Pyongyang's fall to Chinese forces, their limited deployment to Japan being one of the deterring factors that had made China give up the capital to South Korean forces and Korea to be reunified with little Chinese impact.

What that had meant was that the 4th Ranger Battalion had been, widely, untested and unable to be deployed in any combat situations. Masterson and Bannon had fallen victim to this situation more or less.

Masterson had been deployed to Mexico though, during the original American occupation of Mexico's northern border upon the request of the faltering state, however he saw no action against the drug lords or the narco terrorists.

Bannon had simply stayed on station on the Fourth Ranger Battalion's Base in New England for the first four or so years of her service.

Both had applied to go to Japan in the special detachment meant to cycle out the original Rangers there for a change of scenery.

Great minds thought alike.

"Two weeks in. Kay was still trying to introduce himself to us."

"Hah. I remember." Masterson crossed his arms around himself again and remembered old times from a year ago for them. "Poor thing he was. He didn't know back then that we knew each other beforehand, he thought he was doing a bad job at getting to know his men."

"…I wasn't that nice to him, back then, was I?"

"Neither was I, truthfully. But it has to be that way for any officer just straight out training, right? Their own rite of passage for commanding a unit?"

Emerson was only twenty four years old when he took command of Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon. Although he had been on the greyer side of twenty five now and aged considerably, mentally, once, a long time ago it seemed to his two sergeants, he had just been a bright eye'd college graduate playing soldier.

"Yeah… I told him to just make another power point about something. He left and then you turned to me and, I don't know if you were serious or not bu-"

"I was serious."

"Mm. You told me… yeah."

"Would've you been okay if we never met again?"

Bannon had ran her finger over his eyepatch, leather in its texture, three lines crossing over her head with black elastic. "I used to think I was okay with us not reaching out after we joined up, but…"

She had lost herself in memory and thought enough that Masterson had managed her meat for her, getting the stuff off the grill onto plates for serving.

"That's the thing about us homeless people, it's not like we got LinkedIns or anythin'."

"Did you want to see me again?" she asked.

"Did you?"

Silence.

The answer they both had was fear that they wouldn't have the chance, regardless. However Masterson and Bannon had long taken silence as a language, letting the burning of charcoal and the general moving of plates around fill it in.

"Why'd you become a Ranger anyway, hun?"

Masterson had chuckled at Bannon's use of that word: hun. It was endearing in a way, to hear it from such a ragged voice.

"Texas Rangers and all that, I figured these guys were something of the same lot… I say it worked out. You?"

"Delta didn't want me, Rangers were my second choice." her voice was quiet, brushing back a loose strand of hair behind her ears.

"Why was that?"

"I accidently muzzle swept a gunny during selection. Nothing big."

"Ah, well, that'll get ya. Still, sorta glad… who was the son of a bitch in charge of your cohort?"

"Some old Delta guy named Walker. I liked him. I was one of his first cohorts."

"You too eh? I didn't mind him once I knew how fucked in the head he was. Made me feel sorry in a way."

"Well Cam, I don't ever remember the last time you ever _hated_ someone."

"Oh how you underestimate my capacity of malcontent Lisa." He had scooted over next to her, hip touching hip. "Who says I don't hate you in some way?"

"What would I have ever done to you to make you angry with me?" she asked.

Masterson had poked above her eyepatch. "Letting that happen to you," that poking hand had gone and stroked the side of her face that damaged eye had been on. "Always having that stick up your ass, and not trying to contact me at all, just to name off a few."

Bannon's breaths had been as rough as her voice, almost as if she had been perpetually, but subtly, wheezing. She had given out a pout. "Who says I didn't?"

"I know you Lisa, it's why Emerson made you second in command of this odd little unit of ours. You get stuff done, always."

"You trying to make me feel bad Cam?"

"No. I'm just telling you I missed you terribly."

Furuta had involuntarily let an 'aw' out from his side of the kitchen with some of the maids and RCT3 assigned to him to help out. Bannon had promptly flicked him off, to little effect.

"I never expected to see you again." she breathed slowly, uncharacteristically timidly.

"I don't blame you. We both went in for the same reason."

"Didn't mean I wanted to run away from you."

So Bannon had let her index finger ride over the stitching, poking over Masterson's chest before settling over his heart.

She meant to follow the instructions as written by doing one thing Furuta, being the only soldier there from the moderners, wouldn't mention at all. They needed their privacy, that much he understood as Bannon, for a second, kissed his chin before gaining enough height to retouch lips she had been deprived of kissing for several years.

" _I missed you._ " she had said simply in her long worn voice, getting back down on her feet as Masterson rubbed her left shoulder with his hands, the movement short and sweet. They hadn't said those words easily, even after a year of being back together. They didn't want to admit that pain.

That was their story. On the verge of making the same decision, they had found each other and spent that last week of their life together, bonding over shared hardships and understanding.

Romance had no place in the military. But this had been something from before they both joined, even if it had been in a short time period beforehand.

They knew they had been both going Army, but where they had ended up, as Bannon had told him, "Only God knew."

It was divine intervention that had made them, after years apart, reunite as equals again in Japan underneath that special second lieutenant of theirs that they had come to very much like.

It was poetic, illogical in time's design, but it was the state of fact as it happened. They couldn't be, in private moments alone doing their reports or sitting together in the mess hall, any happier.

* * *

"How are the bases doing?" Emerson asked as they kept smoking.

"The FOBs are doing fine, got their own villages forming around them now."

"Now drawing from the ever wonderful teachings of my professors at West Point, I can imagine that the Japanese are preparing for maneuver warfare soon if it comes down to it."

"What do you mean?"

"A mad dash for this capital lieutenant. War fought by destroying the enemy's decision making abilities by having no idea what the fuck you're doing."

"….What?"

Emerson had been getting preachy again. "If you have no idea what you're doing, the enemy can't possibly find out either."

"Japan, Emerson, Japanese."

He switched over languages. "I'm saying that you're probably going to go right for the jugular by coming to this capital with your full combat force and ignore all the Empire's settlements in-between Italica and here. It's exactly what we did during Iraqi Freedom. Empire might think you're gonna do what they do and go one town at a time, trying to persuade the people and recruit on the way while establishing a foothold, but no. Damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"But Italica and Arnus, they seem so well with our intervention."

"Because the people of _**Falmart**_ want you there, and that took six months. It'll take you less than a week to control the Capital, but then what?" Falmart, with a silent T.

"What?" Itami had paused at the name he hadn't heard before. Damn near 90% of the Special Task Force hadn't even learned the real name of the Special Region.

"Falmart." Emerson had reeled himself back. "This continent, the Special Region, technically, its actual name is _**Falmart**_."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Italica – Fromar Keep**_

* * *

If an officer was an O-5 or above in pay grade in the USFJ, chances were that they had been there when Kim Jong Un died and the Korean War either continued where it left off, or the Second Korean War had broke out.

Even officers that were relegated to desk and office jobs in Seoul or Tokyo had gotten a rude awakening as the entire US Military on that side of the world scrambled to get to Busan, the personnel in Seoul especially put in a trial by fire as hundreds of thousands of pounds or ordnance was dropped on the South Korean capital followed by a million North Koreans.

The North Korean military had made it to Seoul, gutted one of Asia's most prosperous cities, and pushed onward in a repeat of the original Korean conflict: Pushing the ROK military all the way back to Busan before American or allied military forces were able to mobilize and the US President at the time greenlighting the use of the orbital kinetic weapons against a regular enemy force.

Lieutenant Commander Blackburn, a man of Chinese-America origin who had been in Seoul at the time on assignment as a diplomat with the Chinese government, was one of the few officers that saw the Korean war play out from a meeting room in as sky scraper he had to fall out of to survive as the North Korean artillery starting raining.

The vets of the 2nd Korean War had been more used to the slaughter at Italica and Arnus than most: the human waves of North Korean soldiers not too different, all things considered. They had long dehumanized themselves to the act of killing so many, so violently, and in one go.

Blackburn was no different, albeit he had been shipped to the Special Region with his detachment of Navy Seabees only after Italica.

Needless to say he didn't like talking about his time in Korea.

But it didn't matter. Fact of the matter was that he had been there, and that experience was valuable to the 7th MEU in the Special Region. So this was why he was here, currently reviewing requisition forms for all the PXs and Camp Kilgore, more and more special equipment and retrofitting kits for the vehicles coming through that brought them up to 2029 spec in any way possible.

The JSDF had been putting a hamper on him, the plain reasoning being that they didn't appreciate the Americans arming up for a foe that did not exist in this world, but he had played the game and got desperately needed retrofitted and renovated equipment to the 7th MEU and handled special supplies for the only Special Forces unit on that side of the Gate: Hitman Squad.

Technically if any Special Operations were to be performed, he would've been on deck as the mission coordinator instead of Pierce or Sevson, he being further the representative of the current Special Operations Command in the Special Region.

However for now, he had been dealing with more logistical ordeals. Apparently one of which had invited him to the Fromar Keep for dinner.

"Madam Myui. Your Holiness Lalena." he bowed curtly to the two girls he had been more than three times the age of, his dress blues having served him well on this side of the Gate so far. More than he could say for the uniform than he could for the massive Mark23 handgun on his hip.

Officially, the Special Task Force had not been in combat ever since Italica.

Unofficially, the Special Task Force had not been in combat ever since Italica.

On his side flanking him had been Lieutenant Colonel Noelle, Major Sevson, and, the only Japanese officer there, Lieutenant General Hazama himself. Behind Hazama had been an SPC in dress uniform, the odd man out. They had all given their formalities the same as Blackburn as two figures approached them.

It was truly an all-star cast as Wilbur had adjusted his collar quickly. He hadn't expected this turnout to breakfast: the only timeslot Lelei had on hand to offer Wilbur on such short notice.

Uniforms of brown and white had been there.

He had saluted promptly as Sevson returned it, holding his beret in hand and looking around at the banquet hall of the Fromar Keep. This was his fifteenth or so time coming here on an official function. It was the first that its grand space had been cleared out to accommodate only one table.

Sevson's rather squashed oblong face had scrunched up in confusion, low cheeks being sucked in as he looked around.

Breakfast was indeed being served by Myui's maids, even Delilah there away from her day job of serving at the Officer's House.

For what purpose, he didn't know, he was used to attending such functions nowadays without much information.

He hadn't had breakfast before however in the Fromar Keep, so he had dragged along the three other officers who might've appreciated the meal.

"I don't suppose it is usually like this Major Sevson?" Hazama had grumbled, his eyes sunken with bags under his eyes, twitching his moustache.

"No, not really…. Sergeant?"

And from behind Wilbur had slunk out everyone's second favorite dark elf, or rather, first if Emerson wasn't being considered.

Both Yao and Wilbur had been dressed in formal wear, togas and gold chains, Lelei and Myui doing the same.

"We both look good in white, don't we sir?" he had said chipperly. Wilbur had been a morning person no doubt and Yao wouldn't complain. The fact her skin had been dark had made her clothing seem to shine off her form as she had, for once, not broken out begging.

Hazama had raised an eyebrow at Wilbur. "My answer won't change."

Sevson and Noelle had flinched at Hazama's intuition cutting through everything.

"General Hazama, respectfully," Wilbur had drawn a few documents from behind his back, freshly printed. Sevson and Noelle had flared their noses almost immediately. "I might have something that would change your mind." The only reason why Noelle had known any lick of what those documents had been was only because he had been the one to launch the probes from his Hornet. The probes and UAVs sent out discreetly by the Americans in the Special Task Force had been, in truth, the only hidden operations performed by the American portion of the Special Task Force in any measure. That equipment autonomously burying themselves into the ground of various locales and taking various ecological samples which Wilbur, among the other surveyors, had toiled over for a read on the Special Region's resources.

In short, Wilbur had once again done his job, albeit rather reluctantly. Scouring the immediate area outside the Special Task Force's operating range for potential sites of the black gold he had dreaded to ever dig up again.

He had been somewhat reassured that America had no stake in what they had found across the board, according to Pierce, and he had intended to make sure that the populace knew the worth of what they had been sitting on before the Japanese threw the wool over their eyes like so many imperialistic empires before.

Most of America's oil infrastructure had been gutted anyway by that point in history, the need cut with the supply mostly. Even the M1A5s ran on engines so efficient they would've put one of the older Teslas to shame at a point, dependent on what they had been fed.

The only stake America had in the natural resources in this region was in case of the contingency that trapped them on this side of the Gate, then they were prepared.

To have any stake at all otherwise would've let the thousands that died in the Middle East fade away as their lessons to the American public faltered.

The only person who didn't care was the other Marine: some unshaved, sad looking operator with bags under his eyes and a self-loathing snarl on his lips whenever someone looked at him, his disposition seeming like he'd rather be stared right through.

Wilbur had known his details surely, as did Lelei in her ever present use of the internet, which had been afforded to the Corridor.

Corporal Ryan Valentine. Twenty something from Washington state, Force Recon sniper; America's deadliest sniper.

He wasn't too happy about it.

President Dirrel, very much on his way out as the next presidency came, had made one of his last statements in office congratulating the defenders of Italica.

He alone had his name stated and attached to one thing: He was his generation's top killing sniper.

President Dirrel had told him that he was personally proud of him, that his country was, but those words had flowed through him like the air on that day.

Snipers were never meant to be engaged in fights like Italica, at least, not on the measure it was. Every bullet from him was supposed to matter, and that every kill was purposeful, reasonable, in the context of why they were there.

It came to the point however that as Valentine had emptied his dozenth mag that day into the mass of 20,000, his bullets did not mean anything in the wide tactical perspective. And yet he kept firing, looking through the scope, squeezing the trigger as he saw his bullets not change the world, the frontline of the battle, the command structure of the enemy force or give any widened tactical advantage. All that he did was kill.

And that was all that his country, via his commander in chief, had applauded him for at the end.

He looked at Wilbur wearily. How he alone was forced to hold that mark of "top killer" in Italica, even while the tankers killed thousands more, more horrible, even as the Rangers had held the line for hours more.

He alone.

He was alone.

It was his gaze that had made Lelei and Wilbur quickly hurry people into their seats.

Hazama was intrigued at Wilbur's insinuation, and so had everyone else.

Sevson had taken Wilbur asides, whisper yelling into his ear. "What the hell do you think you're doing. If the Japanese know that we know this we're gonna get kicked out real fast, Sergeant."

Wilbur had been as cool as always. "Don't worry Major, in our begging we turned up something interesting."

"Intel work?"

"Something of the like: Some Baccy farmer, old man, amputee, said he knows of some deposits in the Elbe Fiefdom that are not only relevant to the locals, but also to us modern folk. Says this mysterious black poison occasionally sprouts up into springs and wells and-"

"Sergeant Wilbur, it's not your call to corroborate any intel like that to the Japanese, regardless of the source."

"Yeah? Yao would've found out and revealed this all by herself."

"Would she?" Sevson whisper yelled, pointing out a hand to her as she sat. "Do you want to expand this god damn operation all by yourself?"

"Expand the operation? Sir, the Japanese have established three different bases and have expanded their manpower far past the original Special Task Force mandate! Hell, even we've gone past our initial troop counts! Plus don't even get me started over the fact we have a SOCOM team inside the capital right now!"

Wilbur had been the taller man than Sevson, the more lived in, but he was the subordinate. "Sergeant! You've got a really, really good acting concept of the white man's burden with how you're proceeding, and let me remind you that even if I said yes to this hair schemed plan of yours and hers, it doesn't matter to me. There are nations and states, _**borders and boundaries**_ , we have to respect in this world as much as in ours. _**Do I make myself clear**_?!"

Any answer Wilbur could have given was made moot as Sevson forgot the other half of whatever was happening here today.

"Oil deposits?" Hazama had said together, almost in tune, with Lieutenant Commander Blackburn. Sevson's already gray face had drained with color.

Wilbur smirked. "I'm sure the Lieutenant General has another… perspective than you, Major Sevson regarding this."

"God, _**what the fuck is it**_ with you and passing up the chain of command… me and Adrian will whoop your ass about this later."

* * *

Lelei had said grace. Not many people had expected by now besides Sevson, and he often had meals with her while discussing city plans, most of them crazy requests regarding modernizing the Corridor and Italica outright.

Blackburn had already mistakenly stirred his morning soup with his bread before letting it go and waiting for her.

The topic of oil, of war, of revenge and what was due to Yao, would be avoided as long as they could. It would be a shame to soil breakfast over it.

Religion was perfectly fine. "Praying to the good JC, Miss Lalena?" Wlbur had asked as he had taken a sip of the water. He hadn't thought Lumaban's teachings had gone this far up.

"No, no one in particular." she said simply, her patron god that she took in her own name being that of a god of knowledge and learning. Last Wilbur had checked, no one had killed in her name. "Just something I observed after the first meal with the Special Task Force."

"Ah," Blackburn had said as he had ran his fingers over the peeled fruit of new type to him. A cross between a pear and an orange. The inherent sweetness of a pear with the juice and flavor of an orange. Tasted almost like sweetened orange soda without the carbonation. "I'm sure we all remember our first meals here."

"Candy bar about fifteen minutes after we rolled through." Wilbur had commented. The first massacre of the Special Region had been mostly perpetuated by the Warlords and the Type-74s, the Howitzers hadn't made it until the morning, and by that time the first counter attack had come and blown up underneath the tank fire, mortar rounds, and liberal use of peppering.

It was Wilbur's first tank combat engagement, and it had bored him, honestly. It bored him enough to simply sit back in his seat and absorb it all with the help of chocolate.

Italica had been more exciting. Then again, he had spent his breakfast the morning after cleaning out pieces of human bodies out of the treads. He wasn't allowed to, it wasn't his job, but he wanted to see it all get washed out as the treads were replaced, thrown into some ungodly mulcher, and into a furnace.

Tank combat was supposed to be machine to machine: the armored burnt of armored hunks of metal. You were never supposed to see the blood in armored warfare: just the skeletal remains of steel and fire.

The only combat the tanks had seen here was entirely of red blood.

Lelena had finally eaten, but not before Myui had bowed her head and started eating herself.

Sevson had looked over his bread, getting a knife from the bowl of peanutbutter and spreading, a jar of Skippy's not exactly having a place at the royal table.

"I didn't eat for about two days, after that last attack Donald finally shoved some chili into my mouth… Was good… How about you, lieutenant commander, you're the only one here who wasn't part off the initial first wave. Hell, even Noelle was riding with us in the Humvees with combat gear for some reason."

Noelle had sneered. "Gotta be the first everything man. I was the first air man in the Special Region, the first combat pilot to fly in the Special Region, the first pilot to shoot down a dragon back at Ginza for America, and hell do I wanna be the first Ace in the Special Region."

"Ace?" Wilbur asked incredulously. "How?"

"Just gotta keep shooting down dragons. Hell, even your Fire Dragon."

Blackburn had sat back. "Well shit, way to make me feel bad… my first meal ain't anything special. Just our welcoming crew took us out into Italica and had some of the local cuisine. I think I have you to thank Count Myui for that, it was a good meal. Never had a fish that tasted like bacon before." As was the peculiarity of the local ecosystem. It was distinctly familiar, then again it was exotic and new.

She was too entrenched in her cereal to notice. Wilbur had noticed what Lelei was eating.

"Vegetarian? Whatever you say Miss Ayanami."

"Who?"

"Nothing. Cultural reference."

Wilbur had made reference to the only other blue haired person he had known of that had been a vegetarian, and that person had been a fictional character with about the same amount of personality Lelei had wielded. Chances were however Lelei hadn't been a clone or the hellspawn of human creation.

Probably.

"If it is possible to lessen the advances of the mass copulation and production of animal suffering for their resources, I will do so." she had stopped for a second as she looked at the bread and cheese on her glass plate before her, thoughtfully. "Admittedly I was a "vegetarian" before I had met the JSDF or the Marines."

"Your food is much more tasteful than anything the Imperial Courts or even my father's chefs could muster." Myui had said, the bowl of cereal before her, as plebian as a breakfast as it was, was luscious to her taste buds.

Cinnamon Toast Crunch could proudly say it was a brand to win over the heart of a Lordess.

"Reminds me of my kids." Sevson had said as he had taken the bowl of peanut butter and taken a spoonful to stir in. He looked up at the other table guests, no one having anything to say about it. "Really? No one else here got a family?"

Yao had looked down at the table, the entire procession having realized that there was just a little bit of offense unfairly given her way.

Hazama had grumbled as he had been busy taking out his wallet, unfolding the leather flaps to a bundle of photos. "A son and a daughter." he displayed out.

"How old?"

"Fifteen and twelve." he had smiled before straightening his face. "Haven't seen them for a few weeks now."

Sevson had nodded. He knew the feeling, albeit across months and years. He and Pierce had been in Korea for seven months already when North Korea collapse: it took him a year further to come home.

Of all the things he missed from his two daughters, and he had felt beyond bad for that, he had felt more responsible still for putting his soul at hazard while they were worrying about him.

"They're only a stone's throw away, you know." Sevson had said straight, a tad unimpressed. "Nothing really to worry about… how about you, Wilbur? Noelle? Valentine?" how cruel it must've been to talk about family in front of two of those people, Yao and Myui, however Myui hadn't noticed as she ate, and Yao simply toned out as she simply stayed silent, one hand of hers attached to Wilbur's forearm below the table.

"I don't know." Wilbur said. "Haven't heard from the family in years. I hope they're alright."

"Where they live?" Noelle had asked on, his idea of a breakfast being nothing but a cup of joe. Fighter pilots like him had lived off the stuff, it seemed, the Harrier pilots having, in the initial days of the incursion in the Special Region, somehow cordoning off 95% of the coffee beans for themselves by the same method Masterson had smuggled a couch into the region.

"Shetland Isles. A bit north into the Atlantic."

"Ain't that Scottish territory?"

"Technically, aye. But do I sound Scotch to ya?"

"Personally I can't tell either what the hell you are."

"Just call me charming."

"My ass." Noelle had thrown up a middle finger at the man, Myui looking at her own. She hadn't been old enough to know, or of the right world, to know of the significance of it.

"I got a girlfriend, Navy pilot. She flies a SEAD bird. It's hard without her." Blackburn had said as he leaned back in his seat before Sevson could chew into Noelle over throwing up such a gesture in front of children.

"What? Can't bring her over? If you can bring over damned LSATs and those 3D printers, I'm sure you can bring over a person… And shit, ain't you JSOC too? I knew your commanding officer when I used to fly from the Big E during the war."

"Big E… USS Enterprise. Aircraft Carrier." Lelei had muttered, unknowingly reiterating information she had been learning from the limited sections of the library she had access to.

"Yeah, the Enterprise…. and yeah, I'll bring her over as soon as the Empire fields SAM sites, sure." his sarcasm had been noted as Wilbur had drifted off over the thought of home. It was common knowledge all the Warlord crewmen had been former oilmen in some shape, way, or form.

"I heard Chigurh got a promotion the other day." Sevson had said regarding communicae brought to him and Overlord Actual recently, wanting to push off the topic of resources as long as possible.

"Colonel Andrade? Godfather?" Noelle asked, the man his base commander.

"General Andrade now. The old man didn't even seem to care. Brass up at Misawa said he was long overdue his rank by being in charge of Yakota for so long." Sevson had commented idly as Lelei read one of her newspapers on her laptop at the table.

"General Chigurh Andrade… argues that UN observers should be let in to Special Region…" she said lightly, reading a title of an article with his name in it.

"Colonel- or rather, General Andrade," Blackburn corrected himself. "is a stickler for being right and just. Believes in the UN much more than the usual person. Some sort of white knight he is."

"Man's just old Blackburn, he came from a world where the UN actually tried to do things and got some results out of it. It's not hard to imagine why he would think the Special Region would benefit by it." Hazama had commented. He had dealt with Andrade a lot during the pre-invasion talks and the American component of the Special Task Force. It had been his idea after all, if not it being a kick down from his idea of a UN led task force.

"The UN isn't needed. Not really much use for them here seeing as we're operating within all their guidelines." he continued.

Asides from being there in the first place.

"Hmph. I would think General Andrade would be busier dealing with China and Vietnam right now." Blackburn almost coughed chewing on bread.

Wilbur had squinted his eyes. "What do you mean?"

He swallowed and pointed at the man. "Vietnamese cruiser took out a few PLA naval drones that drifted into territorial waters, China sent a few ASM planes out and fired off a few missiles. No one got hurt though, Russia's contributions to Vietnam's military made sure the point defenses on their naval forces are primed and ready for this sort of thing. Now everyone in Asia is sitting on their asses waiting for China to respond." Blackburn wiped his hands on some bread, sighing himself. "Truth be told, I should be back over there too."

"Right, I heard about you." Noelle wagged his finger, Hazama had also had the same thought as he spoke up. The pilot had finally put a face to the name he had been walking with from his quarters at the Joint Air Base. "You're call sign Riptide. You helped designate targets for our ground pounders in Seoul when the North Koreans were invading and when we took it back."

"You were the US liaison officer to China's diplomats in Seoul when Kim Jung Un died." Hazama repeated history. Blackburn had soured as he ate some of that bread.

"Yeah. Let's just say this isn't what I was expecting to be the follow up a few years later."

Riptide. As cool as that nickname was to the unacquainted, was a nickname of scorn by his fellow Naval men. More specifically those who had known of his failures during the Navy SEAL selection program which resulted in him getting caught in a riptide and sent out to sea. However he had been the only man of any sort of special forces training and rank when Seoul fell, and promptly popped his combat cherry.

"You want to be here?" There hadn't been an officer in that room that didn't fight to reunify Korea. Sevson, Noelle, and Blackburn were names famous to those that were there in some capacity. Sevson and Pierce had led a company of Marines to blow past the 38th parallel and start to dismantle the artillery sites that had alleviated some of the pressure on the faltering ROK frontline. Noelle had been on patrol at the time in his F-35 when the call came down that a million North Koreans were about to funnel into South Korea, the man expertly guiding enemy formations by strafing the large human masses. Blackburn on the other side had been the only Naval officer in Seoul able to radio in to the USS Enterprise and organize air strikes and the resistance.

The man had stayed in Seoul during the brief occupation by North Korean forces, leading a brief guerilla war amongst the skeletal remains of the capital.

He shrugged. "Well Major, I don't got much of a choice do I? As long as we have material coming in I have to be here, and as far as I'm concerned if I'm needed back in the real world General Andrade will rip me out."

"Real world?"

"Hmm? Oh, forgive me your holiness. I mean, back in our world."

"Is the distinction between this world and your own so distinct you discredit my existence?" Lelei's words were delivered without emotion, making even a man who had seen the Korean apocalypse come at him shiver.

Blackburn had been brought to full coherence as the reality of calling this world and all of its people fake to him had kicked his teeth. "It was a slip of tongue, Lelei, honest. You're as real to me as any human being I've ever met."

"It worries me that there is that disconnect." Lelei's words against Blackburn had finally made the quiet man of the group, Valentine, speak up.

"Trust me, ma'am. There isn't any disconnect. Besides, you should be one to be talking."

There was something about a man that had killed an entire legion of men that had made his dissent unable to be countered by his officers. Sevson had reasoned when he first talked to the brown eye'd Marine sniper, that he had killed just as many in some ill-fated way to be put on his measure. Even in Korea. But Sevson never killed that many people personally, and Valentine had made him know that.

" _Sir you've been my fucking officer since Korea,_ _ **don't lie to my face.**_ _"_

Ever since then Sevson had been trying to make it up to the man, and that included this particular breakfast.

"Excuse me?" Lelei had asked, her eyes narrowing at the man.

"You're a nomad. What do you know about connecting? I bet you never even talked to the amount of people I killed in the name of this town."

There was a seething contempt for life in his eyes for liars and, perhaps, life itself and all the platitudes given to him.

He hadn't ate anything before him, he had just sat there, and listened to the man who ran over a thousand people try to make his case on how the poor elf on his arm deserved to be save. He made his case to the man who had played pretend city official in a world that was not his own, a pilot who had paved a highway to hell with a smile, and a glorified book keeper.

He shook his head. "Excuse me, Major Sevson." and he disappeared into the hallways of the keep.

Lelei had seemed unfazed by the man's coldness. "Corporal Ryan Valentine. Sniper. He was on the roof."

Myui had nodded. "We have much to thank him for."

"His president and a grateful nation do thank him." Noelle's sarcasm had been a bit more than a apparent as a pilot.

"You fly boys are always such wonderful personalities." Blackburn groaned.

"I'm not the only one here awarded by their president. We all were minus you Wilbur. We're all equal. Especially you Lieutenant General, you were one of the first on ground from the JSDF, right?." Noelle tapped on his ribbons and medals. All of them, even a now absent Valentine, had shared a Korean War II Campaign Medal and Presidential Unit Citations. "And good ole Overlord. Adrian's got the good M oh H, right?"

The first Medal of Honor to be awarded in the Second Korean War had been to the first American over the 38th: that man had been a then Lieutenant Colonel Adrian Pierce. The rest were posthumous and a quarter from his unit.

Hazama had remembered what the dark elf, silent, yet present, had been talking to him earlier about. It was time for a change of subject. "So, Yao was telling me that she has confirmed the existence of oil before we sat down. I think she said something about the Flame Dragon was attracted to such substances."

Sevson pinched his forehead and rubbed. "Well, shit, guess we're doing this here."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Outskirts of the Imperial Capital – Imperial Gardens**_

* * *

"The Sumitomo Minimi. Also known as a light machine gun, is the Japanese Self Defense Force's main suppressive fire applicator. It fires the NATO standard five point five six millimeter round. These rounds fired from this gun, and the guns of the Americans, will penetrate up to a foot and a half of flesh at just short of three thousand feet per second."

"Bullshit." One of the War Hawks had said from the crowd, Emerson in it as well, just for show.

Shino had been leading this as she cradled the gun itself. Being as savvy as she was in all forms of military etiquette, she was the most qualified to talk about the JSDF's firearms. From the battle rifle, to the service rifle, to her much used sidearm.

After the luncheon it was off to the weapon demonstrations, Itami holding his battle rifle across his chest as he and the rest of RCT3 had donned their kits. Most of the Rangers who hadn't been kitted up had also returned to their everyday work clothes.

Not to say that their work had been as casual as the phrase.

"Just keep watching Senator Cruvu, you'll see."

"Does everyone have their ear protection on?" Shino had continued. Cruvu had been one of the least giving with the idea of a peace existing between the enemy on Arnus Hill and the Empire. Peace in some measure had always been the status quo of the Empire, but only because it was a peace that came with their victories and conquests, not vice versa.

Emerson had slid on his own ear protection, squishing the tips of his ears down. Half of the senators did with their provided ear buds, the other opted out over one reason or another. Some hadn't seen any threat, some hadn't trusted the pleasantries, but Emerson had been more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

Tinnitus was a mean son of a bitch.

"You've heard the rumors coming form Arnus Hill, haven't you all at this point? On how the survivors told stories of these beams of light and fire reaching out in the distance only to burn and dismember comrades apart?" Itami's tone had turned from man of the hour to soldier.

He walked through the sea of senators with his weapon, three quarters finely machined metal the last quarter wood. "Have you been to Arnus Hill?" he asked Cruvu, some senator who had been used to having the Empire use its wars for conquests, his representative territories had been bordering the Eastern Plains.

"Of course not. But I am assured our defenders at Italica are preparing for a counter attack as we-"

Itami squinted one eye at him humorously. "Eighty percent of the Imperial Army is in ruins, either from General Foulke's failed attack at Italica with General Hebron, trust me, he's our highest ranking prisoner of war, or from the counter attacks at Arnus. I'll show you how that is."

Conveniently there was a large ditch behind a hill where broken pottery was broken, and conveniently that had been about a few shooting lanes large to Masterson's measurements.

Itami had joined side by side with Shino as she had dropped to the floor and mounted the LMG, mounted on a few sandbags.

Fifty feet or so out underneath camo netting. It was technically an indoor range.

Crudely two targets painted with a red had been in the background of the pottery and the used bottles from the meal.

"Let's pretend their Romans, eh?" Shino had said under her breath.

"Easy." Itami responded. Having one dog in RCT3 and Hitman was enough.

His back tightened as his jaw clenched. "Contact at our front! Five tangos fire at will."

Pina had remembered when Bannon had opened up with her assault shotgun during Italica, almost single handedly destroying dozens and dozens of men into bloody pieces. She saw it again, albeit with pottery.

She remembered that sound well: the sound of thunder that had made several senators hands spring straight to their ears as glass pottery flew.

Side to side, bursts of two or three seconds which kept the Minimi going unendlessly as the sound of glass shattering fell with the expectations of a winnable war.

Itami was a good shot, enough for him to put three bursts down range and land different targets destroyed before squeezing off the rest of his mag into the dead center of the red dots.

The ears of the senators were ringing as Itami dropped his mag and Shino simply went into a crouch, pleased with herself.

There wasn't a dry eye in the house between the fear, emotion, and the gun powder.

And while the iron was hot Emerson had yanked out the Winchester, one hand on it, the other on Cicero who had been standing in awe and in the back, spin cocking it once. The bones of Foulke had been pressed into Cicero's hands.

"This is no magic, no work of the arcane. Any man can be as destructive as the Father of Sin, so judge a soldier not by their weapon or army, but who lies behind it."

He pushed Cicero forward to Itami, a calming smile on his face as all he did as he reloaded was pointed out.

If Cicero didn't know better, his sweat forming on his greying scalp, the bones had been fresh from one of the Empire's greatest generals, as if Foulke had died just minutes ago and donated his bones to the grip.

He feared what he was holding.

"First time I picked up a gun, you know what I felt?" Shino spoke the Lingua Franca. She wanted it to be understood. "I felt empowered, I felt like I could change the world." her words had been light and comedic and full of honesty it would've been beautiful.

"Aim down the sight, hold it out, pull that piece of metal." Emerson instructed as Shino had talked in the background.

"You think I'm a pretty woman, Sergeant Masterson?" she called out the Texan in particular.

"I say you fit the bill." he responded, unsure of what kind of point she was making other than to get a compliment out of him.

She giggled. "That's all people ever saw me as, growing up. Just a pretty woman. I had several offers to become an idol, you know, I was thicker than most and that meant I had a good market." she shook her combat rig almost as if making note. "I was at an airshow once, shortly before I got out of high school. At that airshow they had a bunch of Rangers and Ss preform a helicopter fast drop on some propped up shack in the middle of the runway. There were several thousand people there that day, but every single one of them went quiet, not by the sound of the jet engines, but by the gunfire of the GSDF SFGs."

She had dropped the ammo box attached to the Minimi as she cleared the chamber with a flick of her finger, black ash on her fingertips as she grinded it into her palms, putting it over her face and inhaling. "That's what the Marines do, right? Run toward the sound of gunfire?"

"In the lack of any other direction, yes." Bannon had said carefully.

"For me that meant to run through basic and do everything I could to get myself to be a Ranger, like you guys. We have the power, don't we? The power of the military, the power of being soldiers. _ **I love it.**_ "

Cicero's index finger had trembled over the trigger as Shino had said her spiel with a smile, the gun kicking in his arm and being thrown to the ground as a piece of the wooden target exploded.

The power of sin had all been summed up by Pina's voice. "This is the power of a gun."

* * *

For once Emerson had been able to see Hitman's take from the Hakone shootout as Shino, Tomita, and Itami handled their own weapon demonstrations a few lanes over. The senators had all been in awe, feared, or begging for some way to buy those weapons, but there was no give obviously.

Masterson's double barrel shotgun and two Peacemakers had been put on the table, Bannon's Ishapore Enfield following along with Emerson's now mutated Winchester.

"Guarantee the Colts are going to be the closest thing that Pina's gonna be able to clone."

Bannon had cocked her hands on her hips as she looked down, Loke, Harris and Doc unloading the weapons they carried during that rather odd encounter. "Counting on it Cam?"

"Hell, even the fuckin' Injuns back in the old days were using these things when the white man came." he pointed at the pistols, Emerson crossing his arms and looking down at the firearms.

A Russian Makarov and a Finnish SMG had come next, the round drum of it unloaded and placed before it in a rattle: it was fully loaded, Loke knowing her firearms well enough to explain. "Suomi KP-31, original basis of the PPSH. Nine millimeter Parabellum. Damn thing is nearly a century old and the Russian Mob was still using 'em."

At the sound of Russian Harris had put down his Kalashnikov variant, an under folder stock and a standard issue GI mag hinting at the cartridge it was chambered in. Loke pointed at it. "Yugoslavian M95. Kalashnikov offshoot that shoots our standard five fifty six. For some damn reason all the AKs we picked up fire either five five six or our battle rifle round, guess the crime lords like to have NATO standard rounds now."

"You kidding me? Course, ISIS broke into Iraq's main ammo dump and stole pretty much every single round. We still got people dying from rounds traced back to that today." a Ranger had clarified.

Even Doc and Harris had delivered two more Kalashnikovs to the table, Doc delivering the final piece: that being the P-08 pistol from his chest holster.

"Civilian AK-12 in five fifty six, semi only. Saiga in three oh eight, looks like it's been through the Khyber Pass... Luger in nine mil. Certainly a very varied selection, don't you think?"

Black had groaned, "Shit, I woulda done anything for us to have those M4s I heard those SOGs were usin', or hell, even if we got our duty rifles back. Now here I am stuck with bumfuck GI ARs back when the first George Dubya was in office."

Emerson had ribbed Black for just a second.

"They ain't that old Black, and you're lucky I don't make you pick up a damned crossbow and use it. You're good enough, right private?"

Black never got the chance to answer. "I'd be more than happy to take these AyArrs from you." Pina's voice had made all the Rangers snap to attention, sans Emerson.

"You all look good in Imperial livery." she said simply as Hitman parted and stood on either side of her path, right toward Emerson and his team leaders. "At ease."

Pina had learned Emerson's regulation language to an extent that the Rangers knew what she had meant, translated into the Lingua Franca. Bozes and the rest of her nights with their hands on with Wlbur in the English language had done a better, albeit Scotch/British tinted, job.

"Playing with your own toys, Emerson?"

She was unphased by Emerson's Winchester, she knowing better than most of what mystical properties it didn't have. She took some sick pleasure in running her manicured fingers over what had been a part of Foulke's body.

She never liked the man after how lowly he had looked down on Grey.

Emerson had been acting, occasionally, as a fine extension of her power. It was nice to have a literal hitman on the field.

Not that he would've known he was being used as such.

She had set the rifle back down and looked up at her mentor. The two had spoken with little actual verbal communication at points, as was the nature of their relationship at this point, made in the secrecy of their mission.

Her eyes had darted down to the gun as he rolled his own, getting the Luger and loading back the mag in. She had the eyes of a begging child in the toy aisle. Probably not something she was used to as Doc had been beckoned over by a flick of Emerson's finger.

"Your grandfather was a Nazi, you probably know how to use this thing better than me." Doc had frowned as the squad sneered at his own heritage, Emerson handing him the pistol and put his hand on his back.

"Oh how you pain me, captain."

"Nazi?" Pina had repeated that word, her eyebrows raised concerned as she remembered Nutt's telling of the Second World War. "You-?!"

"No- non, non." Doc had sputtered. "Just my grandfather." Doc's grandfather had been SS, and as angry and as stubborn as the good doctor had been, it was one of the only things Hitman could ever peg him on.

"I don't know Doc, my gut tells I have to be pretty scared a ya' as a Son of Abraham." Nutt had said, the man a Jew.

"Ah, I heard reports from the Corridor that your kind are detested there, as well as on the otherside…"

"What? I was just kidding princess. The only reason you guys down at the Corridor think like that is because they take all the shit we say literally."

"Which is why you guys are keeping your traps shut out around the town when needed?" Emerson's commanding bite had come back, Hitman coming back under it as an old habit.

"Yes sir."

"Good… now, as you were Doc."

Doc had held the weight in his hand. A long time ago American GIs had thought these as war trophies. To him he viewed more as a family heirloom by some sick extension. "If you've been training with Captain Kay, I'm sure you know how to follow directions at this Pina, right? Man will beat it into you."

She giggled. "Literally."

Doc's quiet 'hmph' and a nod had made him pull back the unique slide of the Luger and catch the round in midair as he displayed it to her. "This is what you're firing. Don't underestimate it by its size, men have died from lesser projectiles even in our world. Hell, Sergeant Bannon's eye was taken out by a glorified pebble." he smiled at the sergeant whose one remaining eye had been carrying the glare of two before he had aimed down range, one handed.

"It's still smaller than Emerson's…. what is it called?"

"Bullet."

"Most people typically are."

Masterson had been there with a knuckle touch as Emerson had slid in some humor to lighten the mood. "And no one can say otherwise, right?"

"So you know personally Sergeant Masterson?" a Ranger had fallen back to old banter as Pina had tried to imitate Doc's Olympic style pistol shooting stance, or otherwise known as the "One-Handed Nazi".

"Fuck you."

It didn't take long for a shot to ring out from Pina, she taking the Luger like a sword. The paper targets at the end of the lane had been hit center mass almost perfectly.

Black and Loke had been impressed as the grins from Emerson and Masterson's face were wiped.

"Ahhh sir?" Black had poked his captain's back. Another shot rang out, Doc shoving his gloved hands into his pockets and raising his own eyebrows.

"Yes private?"

"You ain't been training her how to shoot, right?"

Another shot a bare inch from the last.

Emerson had nothing to say, even if he didn't train her. No way he could have.

"She's a natural." Loke's response to Pina instinctively clamping her other hand on the grip and straightening her body out had been something she figured out herself. "She lets the recoil ride."

"Hell, give her an AR, I want to see what she does with it."

"What have you got against these things anyway?" Emerson had brandished his M16A2, its heatshield having covered a grenade launcher on the lower half of the barrel, his elbow motioning toward the M4s that his sergeants wielded.

"I ain't got anything against the M4 and M16 platform sir, just that these are the A1s, A2s and A3s mostly. Hell, you know the Marines are still fielding the last of the A5s and the A4 sweet sixteens on the other side as their main rifles alongside the M4s. Envy them, really. Give me one of those any day when they get here."

"Really? Don't even like our MCRs?"

"Man fuck the MCR and the 416s they've been trying to push on us. The SOPMOD Block upgrades with our M4s were enough. The GI-reens are a stubborn lot, but at least they got the sensibilities to not fuck with the good ole AR-15 system when it was perfected by our good ole military industrial complex."

Pina squeezed off another round, one handed, her breath heavy and rapid as she struggled with the recoil. "All this talk, it feels meaningless."

It was meaningless to her: the weapons, the difference of a decade, between a weapon system from before Iraq or after. It just didn't matter to her. It would've torn her people asunder either way.

"Have you not mastered your tools of war enough?"

"Nah." Masterson had said. "Next time a Gate opens, maybe it'll be the reverse, and we'll need all that we can get."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Italica – Fromar Keep**_

* * *

"If a strategic interest of Japan is at risk, I assume it would be in our best interest to do something about it." Hazama and Sevson had been going at it over the same point over and over again for the last half hour, neither Yao or Wilbur able to say anything. Indeed their breakfast had been barely eaten.

"Strategic interests? Now you're willing to cross the borders to the Elbe Fiefdom with the reasoning of securing strategic interests for Japan?"

"Oh, in due time it's not just for Japan. Wilbur should know how dire the world is currently in need of oil, despite our advances in the energy sector. Consider it a mutual objective…. and," he turned to the ever silent Yao, Wilbur having quietly whispered in her ear to buck up. "It actually gives us a credible reason to do something."

"Hell, you're certainly ain't pretending to not be from Leavenworth."

Hazama's moustache had twitched as he took on the words before pointing vaguely out the exit Valentine had taken. "Trust me, I'm not the only one that's had to dehumanize themselves recently. Really, I envy your care for her, Sergeant Wilbur."

Myui had tapped her spoon against the rim of her bowl once or twice. "The Elbe Fiefdom was once a satellite state of the Empire until recently. Technically it exists outside of the empire, however many of its citizens still see themselves as Imperial in a way. As is my observances with the traders from the Fiefdom's capital."

Lelei had followed up. "It would not be a stretch to act under the presumption that the Elbe Fiefdom is still an Imperial State, and thus, Imperial territory."

"America wouldn't, Madam Lelena." Sevson had immediately shot back.

"Oh but it's a win-win situation, wouldn't it? We would be able to deploy forces to put down the dragon, secure a valuable foothold ontop of-"

Sevson held out a hand. "Respectfully. You, you, you, get out. This discussion doesn't leave this table." he pointed to Yao, Wilbur, and Blackburn.

It was then Yao had decided to be the beginning and end. "You have the perfect excuse! Why don't you take it?! Why?!"

"I don't need an excuse, because we aren't _**doing anything**_."

* * *

Sevson as a New Jersey man had a temper, but the temper that had made him lash out at the three people in particular had been a cold one, an aggravated one. Blackburn hadn't felt much of anything, but Yao and Wilbur had been cold as they walked out with him.

He sought to lighten the mood.

"Sergeant Wilbur, Kingdom Come is due for some renovation in Kilgore's bays in a week or so. Upgrades should bring it up to at least M1A2 or M1A3 spec, dependent on the packages I get from the next supply shipment, either way, find something to do and be sure to clear out your tank of any personal photos and effects. Captain Csintalan got an earful from the maintainers after they found a few… bottles containing prohibited substances in her chair."

Blackburn referring to the Hungarian-American Warlord Actual had made Wilbur feel bad for the woman, but still, he had appreciated the advice from Blackburn.

"…Is that why she got shitfaced for one straight week?" Wilbur had barely shifted his face to look at him.

"Records technically made Warlord 1-1 disappear, not exist, during the retooling." he ignored as he stood there at the door with Wilbur, looking over to Yao. "Did you want to beg of me the same you did with everyone else?" he asked them both.

They both hung their heads low. "What would be the answer?"

Blackburn had licked his lips, running hands through short black hair. That was the curse of being the last one, he had thought: he had all this time to consider the question and think of what it would be to him.

"Look, I'm still technically a handler for JSOC over here, the only one. I can give orders and manage low-level deployments of the SOCOM teams that I have present and, well-"

"The Rangers?"

"Hitman is an autonomous unit, separate from Pierce's command, they can go on that mission as long as no one outright points a gun at them to stop… and within good reasoning."

"But they're in the capital!"

"I know, so you're best solution is currently a month and such away. They're out there for a while and I'm actually about to pack my bags to go meet them."

"You're a feckin' JSOC Navy Commander man, can't you call up any blokes from SEAL Team Six or Deltas or-"

"I order ammunition, equipment, and supplies to Arnus. I can't put in a requisition order for SOCOM teams… besides, the surviving units are tied up running anti-Cartel Ops in Mexico and South America anyway." There was a battle inside Blackburn, how he knew it was not right for Yao's situation to happen. The Flame Dragon had been an active combatant against the Special Task Force regardless, and it had the privilege of being on their shitlist if it survived, but they could not because the Americans would not let the war expand. "All you can do is wait. I'm sorry, Sergeant."

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to her."

"You act like we've wronged her."

"Well aren't we by-"

Blackburn had grabbed Wilbur's shoulder. "Are we personally responsible for every fucking Korean orphan? Every mother or father or sister or brother killed in the wars we fight? Sure we're responsible for some, but not all. We couldn't _**even if we tried**_. You don't want our help, Wilbur, you want our approval. You want my permission you have mine to do something in a month when the Rangers come back, until then you are to sit on your ass where you've been posted." he took off his cap as he darted down the hallway. He had a schedule to keep and a mission to go on. He licked his lips and looked back at a certainly more downtrodden pair. "I'm not saying no to you outright. I am not going to be the one who damns her people. But I have a chain of command to respect and orders to follow, Japanese or American. Now get out of my sight."

Wilbur and Yao had no more words to dare or to tempt, and so they turned away.

"Sergeant." The words were stern and forceful, Wilbur turning back and seeing regulation written on Blackburn's face. Wilbur clacked his heels together and brought his right arm up and cocked. Salute, return, and a disappearance into the loneliness of the keep.

Blackburn had stayed there however until the echoes of their heavy footsteps disappeared. He rocked his head around and gagged. " _ **God**_ , I hate doing that shit." was his words under breath before a flask came out and he had his occasional breakfast for when it became too much.

* * *

 ** _Falmart – Outskirts of the Imperial Capital – Imperial Gardens_**

* * *

The awe and implications of the modern firearm to combat had been one thing. Those that had mastered the art of shooting was another. Asides from the specially trained Black and the other sniper and marksman assigned to Hitman, Masterson had been considered the best shot in the 4th Ranger Battalion, and, as he would often boast, perhaps the "Entire damned 75th".

Masterson in his dress uniform had shared something in the commendations on his chest with only two other people in the world: a medal displaying the golden skyline of Ginza. He had shared it with his captain and Itami as the "Heroes of Ginza". Of course, there were other first responders, heroes, Tracey especially, but they were the first military personnel to fight back in any capacity, and by far the most influential. Kay hadn't believed but Masterson didn't complain. Otherwise, over his breast had been a rather well trimmed fit of several other ribbons during his service, most of them service and training awards underneath his marksmanship badge.

"Lookie here partner." he had butt in after some of RCT3 were done with giving them a run over with the LMG, Itami taking back his battle rifle from Lord Cicero only for the man to see a pair of smaller hand guns presented to him by Masterson. He slid off his jacket, only to reveal an nonregulation belt, little loops in its ridges to accommodate .357 ammunition. The man had worn his kit over his dress uniform.

How the Yakuza had been able to get two custom Colt Single Action Armies (Colt having long been out of business by that time) was beyond Cam, but he hadn't argued. He once had a pair he had unfortunately sold to keep himself afloat during his time as a drifter. Perhaps they had found their way back to him, after so many year of competition shooting in his hands.

Just as his parents had embraced the very concept of Texas and the pride of that state, he had accepted the way of the cowboy in his heart in some romantic way that translated most evidently in how he had shot.

"This here was designed by my personal God: Samuel Colt, nearly two hundred years ago. The Single Action Army Revolver. Hell, you can call me Cameron Col Masterson if you want. Or, " _The Master_ " if you want, that was my shooting name."

"What the fuck Cam." Emerson had said in the background as he face palmed, eliciting a smile from his friend.

Cicero had been hesitant to take the guns from him, but he had been too slow on the draw anyway, Masteron springing his hands back as his index fingers on both hands slid into the trigger loops, thumbs making sure the hammers were uncocked.

Bringing the guns in his hips out they had started spinning around the hook of his finger, the fan like motions of them backing Cicero and most of the onlooking senators back off at what seemed like a dangerous act. He had slowly traced the design of a circle with both of revolvers going in different directions, the sound of metal and air whipping engrossing those watching, Pina and Itami included.

As the circle was completed up top, by some source of finger trickery the guns had traded hands as Masterson had come down full circle in the twirling, the revolver in his right hand going into a leather holster in front of his right leg, the left piece still going, only to be whipped behind his back, let go, and fly over his head only to be caught perfectly aimed in his right hand.

Emerson had made a point to at least make this entertaining display purposeful as he had walked behind his favorite cowboy and drawn his own pistol: the M45, a derivative of another Colt: the 1911.

"This weapon, the M45A2 Close Quarter Battle Pistol, is the standard issue backup firearm for the Marine Expeditionary Units, of which me and my Rangers are attached to as of present. This firearm is an automatic: one pull of the trigger equals one shot until the ammunition is expended. Ears on."

The ear protection had gone back on again as Emerson's stance hunched, flicking the safety on and off for good measure as Masterson stopped with his gun twirling, and put his own ears on.

Metal plates, of which were arranged by Masterson, were set up, had seen some usage, but mostly the pottery had been at use until Emerson was going to make a point about the smaller weapons: that they could be as damaging.

Emerson had been an center axis relock shooter with his pistols, really leaning into his stance as, in less than what seemed like two seconds, had amazing dumped eight round from the pistol center mass of the center metal silhouette the groupings immaculate as he had rode the recoil as his own. The mag fell out the second the slide clicked back, the spare magazine on his hip sliding into the well just as the spent metal fell out.

Another eight rounds had been dumped fast as lightning, the slide clicking back making Emerson spring his hands back almost against his chest, the piece sliding into his chest holster as the M16 came up and clicking: a mag not loaded. It was muscle memory at that point.

"… Wa- That was almost as fast as the bigger weapon!" Cicero was surprised.

Emerson had held up his trigger finger, looping it into a curl as he had replaced the magazine again in his sidearm, only to slide it back into the holster. "It takes time, but I'm sure Sergeant Masterson will provide his own demonstration coming off of that."

The man had nodded as he had opened the loading gate and slid out all but two rounds in one revolver's cylinder.

"These pistols predate the M45 by a huge margin, however, as a testament to the commonly held belief that it is the shooter that kills, not the gun, I will show you that I am just effective, if not better than my captain, with these firearms."

He closed the loading gate to the black pistol and handed it to Cicero, giving a smirk to his own confidence.

"Point it out there and shoot."

And so Cicero had done so and pointed vaguely down range, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

"Unlike the M45, the Single Action Army requires that the hammer be pulled back for every shot, increasing the amount of time and the difficulty that you are able to stay on target. Pull back the hammer now senator."

He did, and after that a shot had rung out as his unfamiliar hands had bucked, Masterson holding the man's forearm before a muzzle sweep.

"What kick!"

"Hmph. You still have another round in there. Shoot it off."

He pulled the trigger, forgetting the hammer, only to bring the gun in and use his other hand to push it down before firing.

The gun was returned as Masterson flicked his fingers toward him, the man opening the gate again to replace the spent rounds and top it off, spinning back into its holster as he had stepped in front of Cicero and bowed his legs a bit.

A gunslinger at high noon. His cowboy hat had still been on him. A black Stetson, worn, personal to him.

 _"Howdy."_ That greeting had set the tone for every person Masterson had ever introduced himself to. It was the first words he had given Emerson after he had been shipped out to Japan after a peaceful stint in the American military posts in Mexico, his first words, a week before he had joined the military, to Bannon while she had been silently sobbing the room over in that motel.

He was a Texan, a cowboy, full and full. His hat had been his personal one, a gift from a better time with better familial relationships. His one identity was the one that the worn, scratched, panhandle wind blasted hat gave him on his own at such a young age.

He took on roles, identities, very easily: a consequence of the need for quick money on odd jobs.

He had long figured a gun man would've been as much as a calling as working construction or walking dogs.

So he stood there, frozen, Emerson tapping his foot patiently and raising an eyebrow before he had made an "oh", absentmindedly. He had taken out his iPhone and went to a timer app, holding it up in the air.

"Shooter ready!... Standby!"

The high ping of the timer's tone had triggered Masterson's ears, the man's right hand going to a revolver as his left hand fell frozen in place in the air, awaiting the arrival of the gun. The guns, and his hands for that matter, hadn't went above his belly as his entire body shifted from his feet, his head directly inline center of the gun over it.

His index finger clamped down the trigger as the first shot had rang out with a complying metal clang of impact, but no sooner then the first shot had happened did five more follow in less than a second and a half, the blur leaving many people confused, expecting more from the gun until they realized Masterson had dumped six shots in the time most would only shoot one or two.

Masterson's idea of a reload had simply been dropping the gun to the ground, his left hand going to the remaining gun, his right hand assuming the hammer slamming position before unleashing another fury of .357 ammunition into the unsuspecting plate to the awe of even the moderners.

The gun had gone limp his left hand as he twirled again, it stopping, barrel pointed up toward the sky, his nostrils inhaling the gun smoke, the man breathing out a satisfied sigh.

He had taught the same point and shoot techniques to the MPs, for better or worse, with his double barrel. The action of the Thompson rifles and the shotgun had been the same, so Masterson, in the need to get off his ass and babysitting his soldiers, taught as he had shot.

"Six shots. More than enough to kill anything that moves."

"Alright, Ocelot." Itami had groaned the moniker from a videogame series he himself had played once, picking up the revolver for Masterson. Emerson had flicked a view of the screen toward his sergeant for a view of the time it took for him to dump, the man rather pleased with himself. Pleased enough to grab Emerson's hand wielding phone and drag him to his side, bringing in Itami too.

Front facing had shot off a picture as the two had settled in, Masterson's interest in photography not to be understated.

"You played Kojima's work?"

"Game taught me the merits of running away and hiding."

"Ah. Makes sense."

"There's a time where you have to run away?" Cicero had butt in as he had looked as Masterson's revolvers, the man dropping the cartridges to the ground and replacing them from his belt.

Bannon had been running through her own point and shoot in the next lane. She herself hadn't been a bad shot, but her true specialties was in command and conquer, if not close quarters combat. Her left hand had held the expended mag as it had also wielded the one about to be used, the new one locked in as she had just finished off a few old vases, the women looking onward with her and how easy it was to her, she flicking the safety on as she had stood there, letting the audience sink it in. Even with one eye she had let muscle memory take it over for her.

She had heard Cicero's question. "To survive another day, to fight another day, is better in my opinion than to die with honor." she ejected the magazine into her waiting hand, racking back the bolt some in habit as she had rendered it unloaded, catching the flying round with little hiccup.

Cicero had almost laughed. "I hardly imagine there's an enemy that would be able to beat you back."

The Americans had simply stayed silent as they looked between each other, knowing indeed what kind of enemy:

Farmers with hunting rifles. Muslims come to fight for their faith the world over. Children told to distract soldiers by playing with them so a sniper could set up a shot. A people deprived of development for seven hundred years because of the old Empires of Turkey and Britain.

That had been enough to force America to bury themselves alive in the Middle East.

The Marines had known that the Empire could've very much fought that same type of war, however the Japanese coming off of numerous advances and Italica, hadn't seen it like that.

 _"This isn't Afghanistan."_ as was Hazama's eternal excuse.

"Well, come now, I've got a few other of our weapons set up down by the valley." Itami had motioned his shoulder over in the general direction, giving a nod for Emerson for his own things to be set up as they left the firing lane alone.

Sanders, Nutt, and Ortiz had gotten three tubes wrapped around their backs, not much bigger than the size of a six or seven rolls of paper towels stuck together end to end. Was just about as light too as they set themselves up right next to the larger Japanese weapon system: an 81mm mortar.

The Japanese had their mortar, and all three of them had their own, individually, the sixty millimeter versions they carried had been single man operated ones meant for Special Forces.

The crowd had surrounded them from a safe viewing distance, the Rangers getting the back plate of their launchers down on the ground as they waited for firing orders and for the Japanese to range in at five klicks out.

"What are those tubes?" Cicero had asked, Itami simply telling him to stay a safe distance back. Pina's own research into artillery had been a noted intrigue of hers. Between the Russian Katyushas and firearms, she had been digging deeper still.

Pops had been the firing demonstration leader, standing straight as Bannon had removed herself from the crowd and joined her soldiers, she going to provide firing orders when prompted.

She had gone into the ammo crate where the shells had been stored. "Really, we're gonna waste Willie Pete on a demonstration?"

"Would you rather have them used on actual people?"

"Well, kinda the purpose."

"Staff Sergeant?" Pops had called for her ready, the Rangers tightening their forms as they laid the round and charges at their feet, waiting.

"Right." she had cleared her voice. "Rangers! Full charge! White Phosphorus Air Burst!"

Pops had stumbled as he had heard what ammunition the Rangers were using, but he came over it regardless. "Half charge! Type 2 Ammunition!"

The mortar crew of RCT3 had complied in a copy back, the Rangers keeping their silence as they simply took their ammunition, pulled the pin on the back of the tubes, and opened fire in sync with RCT3.

The unmistakable sound of the "Fwomph" from each tube had made the Imperials flinch.

"What the-?"

Then the sound that almost every Imperial who had been there at Arnus had heard before they died in a hail of hellfire. The whine, the shrill noise, the fall of shells form the heavens that made the earth erupt.

They hadn't been the Howitzers of the JSDF, but they were pretty much the same in principle as three concussive pops broke out almost five kilometers out, bursting like stars and letting loose comets toward the ground: smoky projectiles that were quickly followed by fire and the explosion befitting of 81milimeters of high explosive.

As the shockwave had hit the watching onlookers with sound and the actual concussive wave, the white phosphorus had long outlasted the original explosion: the charred ground perpetually burning in an eerie white cloud that seemed to hug the earth and replace the dirt itself in flame, transforming that particular space into a visitation of Hardy's domain to the senators.

The mortar team had casually disassembled the weapon as they walked off back to the group.

"Just as the soothsayer said!"

"It can't be!"

Cicero had ran his hand over his mouth in disbelief. Such power able to be exerted so easily, the men in tan and green had barely gave off a sweat. "How far can that-"

Itami had grinned, only before calculating the conversion for the Special Region's units of measure.

"Three leagues, more or less."

And Pina had known as she stood there in the background what more horrible, and what more effective, weapons existed at Arnus, and at the otherside.

Bozes herself had been forever mentally scarred by her visitation of another hell: Hiroshima, 1945.

And Cicero had stood back shock as Emerson stood before him, not as an Elf, but as an American from the other side of the Gate. He drew his Winchester, and the senators trembled, his hands tight around Foulke's bone as he had looked it over.

Itami continued as he ran his fingers over the engravings of the Winchester as Emerson held it. "This weapon, and all guns, they're child's play. Every single one of our soldiers, every cook, clerk, and grunt, they know how to use them, and they all have one at their disposal."

And suddenly all the senators had looked around to the cloaked guards, Emerson's Rangers, demons. What they held beneath their cloaks was more than apparent to them now, and there was the thought buried and planted in them that Emerson and Itami with all their men and women present, could destroy the Empire right then and there.

But they did not.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _I come in peace. I didn't bring artillery. But I'm pleading with you, with tears in my eyes_ _ **: If you fuck with me, I'll kill you all.**_

 _General James Mattis, major general of the 1_ _st_ _Marine Division during the Iraq War, in a message sent to Iraqi leaders after his withdrawal._

* * *

They asked why Japan and America simply didn't go into the capital, take what they wanted, and conquer them. As was the status quo of the area: the victor is a victor by might. Might makes right. They could very much do that they thought after this demonstration.

Kouji had answered as Emerson stayed silent.

"For peace." was the answer. Of course, there was the stipulations and the treaties of said peace, ranging from guilt admission, land, money, trading rights. After a short uproar over the amount of money and an accidental display of the operating budget of the Japanese to the Imperials, it was America's time for what they wanted.

For the Japanese, it was all negotiable, up in the air and ready for modification. For America however, as Pierce, Andrade, and the US Government itself had said in a memo sent to him directly from Italica, there would be no compromise.

"America has only one demand for peace, Lord Cicero."

"What? Only one?"

"Yes. And that demand is for all parties responsible for the original invasion of Ginza to be brought to us and held accountable for their actions."

"That means…"

"That means at least the emperor himself and his advising staff. In return, America will remain in the region and act as mediators between the Empire and the nation of Japan. We will not allow you to fall into ruin."

Kouji had looked at Emerson with a stark realization. He had been well aware of America's own terms, but he had not anticipated what America would do in return for proper justice. It was something to be recognized after all.

All that meant to him though was that the Empire had a choice.

Kouji had touched Emerson's shoulder as he suddenly drew him away, Bannon and Masterson uneasily finding grips around their rifles. "These are not formal declarations of what the proper terms, may I remind you."

"No it isn't, but it's what my commander in chief expects at the end of it. _**America will not take a side after we get what we're due.**_ "

"You're here on our behalf, Captain Emerson."

"I am not here on yours, I am here on hers'." he pointed at Pina as she had fainted on the ground with a few other senators. The apparent reparation fee had been much, much larger than she had ever anticipated. "We will not be here to justify a usurpation of an entire civilization, Mister Suguwara. Me and you, we've lived an Imperial life this last half month. Are you going to tell me you are willing to destroy it from the inside out just on the auspices of doing what is right? That we're going to come here, act like deities, and proceed to do good just on our will alone?"

"I won't tell you anything."

"… You're right. None of this is official declarations. But America will not stand at that negotiating table as the avenging conquerors, because we will have our own terms too to the Japanese. _We won't let it happen again_."

If the tension was going to be cut with a knife, it didn't happen, Itami idly standing by and hearing something buzz in his earpiece.

"Go ahead." he reported.

"Avenger. Seven victors crossing the SSL. Identify leading victor rider as Prince Caesar. How copy?"

Itami had nodded into it as he had recollected himself. "Avenger copies all. Hitman Actual, you read?"

Emerson's green eyes had slashed across Kouji's face as he walked away, holding his own earpiece down as he gave a thumbs up to Itami and Pina in the distance.

"Avenger, RCT3 takes the senators to the Akusho safe house. Ortiz! You go with them and show them where it at! See you on the other side Youji!"

"Yes sir!" he still had to get used to Itami saluting him off, Kurata leading the convoy out as Ortiz jumped on the hood to ride.

He didn't know why he did, but the orders that came from his mouth had come out yelling, preserved from wanting that tone to be used at Kouji. "All Hitman elements stand your ground, keep your cloaks up. You're supposed to be here, but reconvene by the eatery, now!"

Before Kouji had gone off Emerson had grabbed his shoulder, and grabbed his shoulder hard. His green eyes flashed as his eyelids half closed in a glare. "I know how you are. If you don't get what you want, you go to someone else who can bypass me. But let me tell you, talk to Pierce, our Sevson, or Andrade, or even the god damned Pentagon, we will not let you play God." as was how politicians worked, and as Kouji had blended back into the fleeing senators with RCT3, he had looked as much as a Roman as Emerson did.

It wasn't a matter of politics, of moral rightness or wrongness, it was a matter of not wanting to die.

* * *

The horses had blown past as Zorzal's party slowed down, the air in their wake making the hoods on all of the Hitmen get blown off their heads.

Zorzal's knights had been the first Imperials to fall under the gaze of twenty angry Rangers. All of them, men and women, black, white, their faces and forms as varied as a painter's palette. The one detail that that had made them form into one was their emotion, written into their body language: standing with both feet as cemented to the ground as possible, the rest of their body hidden underneath black and red cloaks.

A golden haired man with seriousness grafted onto his face.

A one eyed woman, her lips curled up into a frown, awaiting the events of the day to unfold before her.

A black elven man, a scar running across his cheek underneath his green eyes.

"So these are your comrades Kay?!" Zorzal had shouted out as his horse had heaved itself up, giving its own version of a war cry as Pina had been quickly approaching, the crowd of the party coming around. "Where's the uniformity?! And women too?! I thought you were all elves?!"

"Pina is not the first of my students, Prince Caesar!"

They all dismounted as all his knights glared at the elf and Pina. She had seemed different ever since Kay had taken her under his wing. Angry, almost.

"Hmph. Right. That one eye'd woman and a brown one came to my door in the middle of the night. What was the meaning of that?" he motioned to the two in question as he got off.

"Oh, I don't know what you're talking about Prince Caesar." Emerson feigned ignorance. "Did they disturb Tyuule?"

Bannon's mouth tightened as she held her tongue. Emerson knew.

Zorzal had smirked knowingly, mischievously. "She wasn't in a position to be disturbed, Kay. She loves me too much to let me be bothered by such things." he saw Emerson's glowering, the frown, as he shook his head. "Nonsense Kay. One day you will conquer a nation and find the true fruits of its reaping."

"I'm not the type to fall in love, Zorzal." Emerson said coldly.

"How about I lend you Tyuule for a night then, would that change your mind?"

"Hardly."

The wind had a blow in between words, giving Zorzal time to think over his response before nodding.

"You certainly are a man of your morals, Kay Ro Bronxon. It's so odd you've taken Rory as your title of worship with how rogue of an Apostle she is… last I heard she was at Arnus, basking in the death there."

Or rather, the Americans.

The ground surrounding Italica where the great masses had died had still smelled of something odd, but very, very, very intensive use of certain chemical cleaners had made whatever impurities due to the corpses dissolve underneath the Corridor.

Zorzal dismounted as the Rangers stayed their ground, the two band of soldiers standing opposite of each other.

Pina had squeezed herself in the middle.

"Brother!" she yelled out excitedly, nervously. "I- I didn't expect you to be here today!"

Zorzal raised an eye at his younger sister. "Does my presence bother you Sister?"

"Nonsense. Nobody would shut the door on you, Brother, but I've never seen you at events like these unless Father told us to."

With all things said and done, Emerson had been proud of Pina as in the last month. She had been very diligent in trying to mock-kill him ever since she had gotten the upper hand on him once.

"Still, I don't remember extending an invitation to you Brother."

"I believe it was Earl Marcus who alerted to me such festivities were happening here, and those festivities were simply the cover for secret negotiations in some treacherous plot… Planning to defect to the Americans, my Sister?" the sarcasm in his voice was deceiving.

"Ah, eh- What do you mean, Brother?"

"I kid, Sister, I kid you. I'm sure a leader of the knightly Rose Order wouldn't do such things."

"No, I wouldn't." she didn't sputter, Zorzal tripping up as he and his knights looked out across the cloaked figures of another empire.

"I do wonder when the Empire and America will put down diplomatic ties. It certainly would be beneficial for men of your caliber, and I assume all of these subjects of yours are of the same caliber, to be out there with us fighting against the enemy on Arnus Hill."

"It'd hardly be a fair fight." It was words that Emerson had thought he would hear from Masterson, but it hadn't been. It had been from Peters as Khan sat obediently by his side.

"Ah, there's another Darkie." Zorzal had said.

"Not a dark elf, Prince Caesar. Just black." Peters' voice had a lot of bass to it, and perhaps that had been why Khan's heard his commands better than most, but he had talked on further as Emerson and Bannon looked over at their soldier, wondering why he was talking.

Not that anyone had minded, not a thought of how to carry the conversation evident.

Peters had an idea though, or, at least, the man had been trying to practice his conversation skills at the worst moments.

"Human?" Zorzal had asked.

"Last I checked."

"Then why are you-"

"Some say it's because my ancestors grew up in a very sunny land; something in my skin, something like that. Same reason why you're so tall and things like that. Just a genetic dice roll."

"Genetics-? Who is this Kay?"

Khan had barked once at Zorzal from their feet. Not an aggressive bark, nor a threatening one, but rather just one to say 'I'm here!'. Peters had patted him.

"One of my men, Zorzal, all of them human."

"And yet you are a dark elf?" Emerson had seriously considered spilling the beans there. He decided against it. "It's complicated. All I can say is that I proved myself, hooah?"

" _ **Hooah."**_ they all repeated, almost seemingly against Zorzal's knights as a battle call.

"This is a family gathering, Pina?" Zorzal returned his attention to his sister.

"Yes, Emerson's knights showed up in the same manner you did, albeit earlier."

"We've been providing security, actually, against wandering eyes. You must understand peace and privacy is in short supply these days." Zorzal had shot a look at Bannon and Ortiz.

"Quite."

The cadre of maids had transferred some of the platter to trays, being brought forward to the knights. "Peters, Masterson, why don't you explain some of the menu to Prince Zorzal and his knights, I'm sure our American foods should be a treat to him and his men.

"Yes sir."

Emerson had deduced it was a bad sign when Khan had tilted his head and snarled before reluctantly following Zorzal's stench.

* * *

Pina had stood beside Emerson as Zorzal and his knights had at it with the food. "Earl Marcus. Molt's top advisor in the senate, ain't he?"

"Yeah… and a pro-war advocate. He knew our movements."

Emerson nodded. "Good read… Least it ain't Diabo. Means we're vulnerable if they ever get a full wind of what we're doing. Got any plans?"

She soured her face in a frown, breathing out tiredly. "To think I was supposed to be only a mediator."

"The hottest place in hell is reserved for the neutral, princess." Emerson rattled off words of wisdom from a pastor who had a dream.

She had waited a long while as Zorzal and his knights tore the food plates asunder, reveling in the Japanese and American food presented as a new exotic cuisine, looking at the savagery.

"Do you see me as a friend, Emerson?"

"I see you as a friend enough for you to call me by my usual name."

"Kay?"

"Kay. Why'd you ask?"

"The way you talked to Kouji-san, it seemed… defensive on behalf of us."

Emerson had taken out his e-cigar as he looked up in the sky, the squad surrounding him in a school circle as they all heard Pina's words. Emerson didn't talk, Bannon and the rest of the Rangers keeping their silence as the cold wind blew their cloaks.

"You have your own destiny, princess." came the dark voice of Peters, Khan at ready standing in between his legs. "You may not be American, but it doesn't matter. You are entitled to lead your empire to find its own liberty, freedom, and a way to pursue happiness."

"My empire?" she had responded to Peters, guitar around his back like some mystical folk hero.

"Maybe, princess. Maybe."

Emerson had rolled one finger up in the air once, twirling it then pointing at the mounted horses. It was time to leave. "One day, Pina. One day." Hitman had started shuffling toward them, the maids would handle the cleanup.

"Going somewhere, Kristian?" Emerson had winced as Pina chose to use his real first name. Not the one he had used as an elf, not the one his drill sergeant gave him during training, but the one his mother had called him, and the one Bannon and Masterson used when they were being tender with him.

Bannon smiled slyly as he had led the pack out, mischief in her eye.

"I'm gonna spend the night in Akusho, with my people, Pina."

She nodded. "Then I'll get the senate starting to deliberate as a whole on the peace treaty with Kouji."

This was it, Emerson's undercover time in the capital was over.

He had taken off his armor, only to replace it with his kit again, wearing the dress of a Ranger and Ranger only, along with Foulke's cape. He held out his hand to her, and for once, she shook in full recognition of what that shake meant.

An approval from one soldier to another.

Before he turned away however, he had given Pina one long last look over. She had changed. He nodded, and as he walked away, Doc had replaced him.

"You're a good woman, Pina." Doc lightly commented, she looked up, surprised and immediately blushing. "You mean well, and you've treated our dear old Jay Kay as one of your own. You've let him beat the shit out of you in training, and you've been trying so hard, even a little too hard, to learn about us, your enemy." he walked toward her, package in hand.

"Decker?"

"You're the type of person I'm willing to fight for, I just hope there are more like you… so here, a gift from Hitman."

Doc had scurried away even before she had registered the square like object, wrapped in some strange paper of majestic colors and a bow. She had opened it quickly.

Framed, laminated, printed, and signed on the back. A photo frame and a photo of it inside. Emerson's selfie from their first night in Tokyo: the three refugees, Bozes and Pina, Masterson, Emerson, Itami laying his arm comedically on Kay's then shaved head as the rest of the group struggled to get in.

Of all the great horrors of modern progress, the photograph was not one she feared.

She, inwardly, squealed delighted, momentarily forgetting about the collected brass in her purse.


	24. 2-6: An Empire of Dirt

A/N: And tomorrow we'll get our Second Season of GATE. After seeing the previews I didn't expect Zorzal to look as he did. The version whose face I beat in is more of the Manga design than anything, anyway, I'm gonna make a bet with myself to finish up the dragon arc first before they do. I do wonder if they'll go into a season 3 with the resource collection arc, but by that time Manifest Destiny will pretty much be on its own path.

Review response:

DerBouncer - Your review was very interesting, I heeded all the advice you could give, but there was a bigger message you gave there: how would the rest of the world think of Japan and the US having their little drama inside of it. I admit this is probably a very odd story to ready to military personnel who aren't Americans I imagine, but being told by you, a German, that you're wondering what the hell the rest of the world is doing in regards to this is very eye opening to me. Because I do admit, the rest of the world is probably angry at America and Japan in this case. China will do something, but I'm not sure about the European powers in due time.

Also I've written out three different drafts about killing Rory recently, between me and Faust of 'Here We Go Again', but I recently discovered a few things about her that made me think of her different. She's a wildcard, yes, but she's not a bad person in retrospective, knowing what I do now.

Shintokyo - I know, it's all so hypocritical. I feel like people are just waiting for me to sic America's full military might on this Empire in a way only I could do, but this restraint is needed. Perhaps analogous to our current "boots on the ground" conundrum with ISIS.

Guests, Bankai117, ATP, Cerberus - Thanks, though I do admit that some of these chapters really do deserve to be chopped up. Oh well.

The Bleach - Yes.

In general - Mind the weird formatting, FF's being weird with the page breaks again.

EDIT: Man, the anime take on this particular part of GATE was a tad disappointing, a tad rushed. I'm almost disappointed, but hell, the show is always good for reference.

EDIT: EDIT: Also I totally replaced Doc with Wilbur for a scene, sorry about that.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-6**_

 _ **Posted on 1/7/2016**_

* * *

Another aerial insertion, crates and crates of supplies, and another RC Team.

Seeing as no one had heard the mortar shelling from the demonstrations, the garden on the outskirts of the capital had been an ideal LZ for the next wave of soldiers into the capital, no Imperial yet having been alerted to the actions of the Special Task Force.

The cover of the Rose Order and Emerson's followers had been enough.

More wagons, more men, and an ambitious goal as befit for the very preliminary steps to invasion. Capitalism would sneak its modern tendrils into the heart of the Empire through its red light district, and unsurprisingly one of the right men for the job had been Lieutenant Commander Blackburn.

The guards in Akusho hadn't been exactly regulation, so they were paid off by Emerson rather easily as the Rangers escorted the entire caravan into the block that Bannon had bought out. Not even the most prepared mugger or the audacious crime lord would try. It did draw their attention however.

Not that anyone would notice as their scouts had looked over the wagons as they arrived in front of that main building with the arched entrances.

Out from the back of the leading wagon had been a man in an office shirt and tie with a helmet and a combat vest, flanked by several personnel from the Navy.

"Shit, and here I was thinking I'd see some more Army boys." One of the Rangers spited.

It got lonely being around Marines and GSDF all the time.

* * *

 _ **Six months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 44**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital -**_

 _ **Akusho,**_

 _ **"The Devil's House"**_

* * *

Blackburn had taken off his helmet as Emerson, Masterson and Itami rendered salute, coming out from the building that RCT3 and Hitman had settled into. The lieutenant commander gave off a cheeky smile. "Ah seems a bit rough, but don't worry, my Seabees built the Corridor, they should be able to do a little TLC makeover here. Congratulations to Staff Sergeant Bannon for acquiring this all for us." he saluted down before extending the hand to all of them. "Lieutenant Commander Andrew Blackburn, I'm well aware of Hitman by now."

"Any particular reason?" Emerson crossed his arms tipping his boonie cap up.

"You're JSOC's only unit within the AO, and I'm on Admiral Lincoln's staff."

Masterson had tipped his own cowboy hat before tucking it underneath his arm, he knew who he was standing before. "I was wonderin' when the black ops community we're supposedly a part of was going to contact us. I ain't got any word of you or Abe Lincoln when I was deployed to Mexico." An admiral by the name of Lincoln had been JSOC's commander nowadays, Blackburn had been his representative here.

"Sergeant Masterson, honored to meet you." Blackburn extended a hand with a smile. It was only when Masterson listened very closely did he hear an echo of a world away in his words.

He took it with a raised eyebrow. "Howdy."

"Just want to say I appreciate everything your parents have done for the Lone Star."

It was very odd to see Masterson lower his blond eyebrows and almost pout, the man obviously perturbed at the mention of his parents. He knew why Blackburn was thanking him however, with how they had saved Texas from environmental disaster by word and law brokering.

"…Where you from partner?" Masterson asked.

"Dallas."

"Houston, originally." he returned. "To be perfectly honest to you lieutenant commander, I've been estranged from my parents for quite a while. Part of the reason why I joined in the first place." Masterson shot a glance at Bannon, her team of Rangers having managed the escort, she returned the gaze before moving on.

"Ah, well, most Texans are forever in your name's debt regardless. Don't like to think about another Dustbowl hitting Texas."

As was the current precarious state of the United States of America's ecosystem west of Texas. California still hadn't recovered from the San Andreas Fault cracking partially years ago, let alone the droughts and wildfires that destroyed the state. A few of Hitman had lived on the West Coast when it fell apart, literally.

As Emerson had discovered in his own snooping of the Imperial libraries, there hadn't been such a thing as earthquakes in this land. That information was disseminated back at Camp Omega to little use for the time being among other things.

"Hmph." Masterson's curt nod had been rather heavy at best.

Blackburn had seen the aversion in his eyes before he had changed the subject, running his hands through short black hair in the new land. The Corridor was one thing to him, a Roman capital was another. Perhaps because he hadn't been here before Italica a part of the wonder and awe was lost on him, but still, it felt like some sort of amusement park to him."…Anyway, you know our priorities here first, right? PX, embassy, and a PB here."

"A PX? Really?" Emerson concern had punched through.

"Hazama's orders. Rather invade economically and technologically rather than with force for the meanwhile. Hell, I even got told to bring a few movie projectors. The Rose Order has been more than willing to translate several movies when they aren't dealing with those… comics."

Itami had blushed. "Hey, we all have our own tastes."

"Well, I've been told to have an airing of Les Miserables… I think. I mean, I was given the scripts but…"

Emerson had grimaced, but not outright wrongly, more of an "oh shit" rather than a "oh no" ordeal. The mention of Les Miserables and scripts had harkened back to Syracuse as he rubbed his chin.

"Why you making that face man?" Masterson asked, his elbow bumping into Emerson's side.

"In college I used to do a production-" he started slowly.

"You mean you were a part of-"

"No, I managed a production of Les Mis. I also played Enjolras." he shrugged, trying to hide the fact as he said it.

"Hah! We learn something new about you every day, Kay."

Emerson waved Cam off.

"Anyway, entire block is cordoned off. I've got RCT3 and my Rangers posted at the roads and paths leading in. I'll call them back at zero dark. If you want to do something tonight make it fast or you won't have our top cover.

Blackburn nodded. "I think we can do something, right?" he turned to his Seabees, all of whom had sounded off an affirmative.

"Bunks are in this building," the captain who had finally worn his own clothes again had thumbed to the building behind him. "You're welcome to spend the night before you guys go dig yourself out your own barracks downstairs."

"Downstairs?"

"The cult that used to own this building beforehand dug a bunch of underground tunnels throughout Akusho. Me and my lizards were able to poke around a bit, should be good for storage and much anything else.

"Lizards….?" Blackburn narrowed his eyes.

On the balcony above them two beings had looked down, draped in clothes befit a wandering royal on the open plains.

"Hell-lo." they both tried to speak English.

Upon first introduction Hitman hadn't at all minded the two rather promiscuous beasts, they having holed down the house during the party until their return. Bannon had almost lashed out at Emerson for having bought slaves that she thought they were, but the two had quickly defended their new friend otherwise.

A good two months with the beasts and humanoids in the Corridor had been enlightening, if not a normalizing experience to the Special Task Force. If it hadn't been that, word on those muddy streets was that Emerson's PowerPoints weren't exactly enough for the more extracurricular activities that made the new beds and mattresses of the Corridor be broken in to stop.

It wasn't provable that it had been happening though, even in the Special Region one or two women had tried to claim a one of the men in green or tan to be the father of their child yet to be popped out, as so to be transferred over to the other side.

It didn't work, but it was still eye opening to see.

As for the Imperials on the other side who had been POWs, they'd be in a rather constant state of isolation in the forests below Mt. Fuji, the "Forest of Death" cordoned off by the Japanese government for their camps. There the UN had actually been able to observe their treatment.

"Uhm, howdy." Blackburn had looked up at them, his face the same one Emerson saw his sergeants hold when they first saw Chuka: an oddity of a nature that was apparently normal. It was only then did he notice Emerson's fake ear tips. "By the way, slice those off when you can, I got your replacements here if the occasion ever calls for it again."

Out of Blackburn's pockets had been two, much more elven ears that hadn't been f Star Trek origin, what looked like ear rings on the lobes. "I don't know, these have kinda grown on me," Emerson ran his fingers along the points. "But alright."

"The ear rings are for actually clamping 'em down. Don't need none of that stitching."

"Thanks." Emerson said considerately. He had missed Christmas after all. He pointed around in the vague direction of the roofs. "This is technically a free fire zone so, any thug gets too close, put them down. If we hear heavy fire we'll come looking for ya, got it?"

"Don't worry," the Navy commander had pulled his Mark23. "We know what to do. We got civies here too, actually. Six locals and two contractors, both Japanese."

It was the first time Emerson had seen the collars and the bracelets on them, but he couldn't argue. "What're the ranges for their collars?"

"Technically they're turned off at the moment, but we have them on tracking at all times, why?"

"Just curious, I don't need them getting lost or some shit, humans are a delicacy to some of the beasts here and I don't need to explain how one of them got roasted."

"Heh, I don't suppose you've had?"

Out of comedy, and perhaps misguided sarcasm, Emerson hadn't given the man an answer as much as he had given Blackburn a blank stare.

"Uhm, right… You're younger than you look, Captain Emerson." he said as he tapped against his clipboard.

Itami had chimed up. "Aren't we all? Lieutenant Commander at thirty, right?"

"A month in Korea aged me twenty god damn years."

"I could say the same here."

Itami had taken an ear from Emerson's palm, running over the synthetic material with his hand. The color had matched Emerson's own skin shade rather too well, but the design was something else. It was one he had seen before. "These look like Chuka's."

Blackburn was a man always content with having his idle face be one of a polite, gentlemanly smile when he wasn't in the position of military hierarchy and all of its complicated interactions, but it was no lie he hadn't shut himself off from the world that much to not remember how these particular ears were made at such short notice.

"You'd be correct in that." he tightened his mouth, putting his two hands behind himself as the Seabees quietly slid out a giant wooden sign which read "PX" rather plainly, to be mounted on one of the buildings.

It wasn't that Masterson didn't have any interest in the elf girl whom he had discovered what seemed like a year ago at a bottom of a well in her destroyed home, but the mess of Chuka had been one that Emerson and Itami seemed distinctly sensitive to, if not the medical personnel within RCT3 and Hitman too. It wasn't in his place to worry about something he couldn't fight.

He bowed himself out before rejoining Bannon, helping coordinate the new RCT team and the Seabees get a read on the block.

That had left the three officers with a subject of ears and elves.

"I had a scan of her ears pass through the first few 3D printers mounted at Camp Kilgore." Blackburn said simply enough, the fingers behind his back tightening around each other rather tightly.

"How is she doing?" Itami had asked interested, rightfully. That had been the question Blackburn had been more than anything didn't want to answer. Blackburn had talked to Chuka, had conversations with her, before. Matters of room and board and whether or not he needed to shave off a few more pieces of building material or furniture for the refugees coming in from the burnt lands that the Empire had successfully scorched further inward.

Always such gentleness expressed from her, he noticed, how she understood what it felt like to lose a home as she helped refugees find a bed to lay their weary heads; the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to breathe new air.

He had also noticed that she looked distantly at children who came with their fathers, and saw strength in family that she no longer had, but her mind had not acknowledged.

"Not well, Captain Emerson, Lieutenant Itami." he said fast, short, uncomfortably.

Emerson's face hadn't changed. He expected it.

Itami on the other hand had despaired. "How bad?" he asked.

Out of precaution the Seabees had actually breached and entered a building across from the main housing. It was quite odd, seeing Navy personnel in hardhats and jumpsuits breach a building.

"I guess I can say she misses you, Lieutenant Itami." Blackburn had looked down at their boots as he delivered, almost ashamed, however out of the corner of his vision he had seen Emerson hold his tongue and shake his head, drawing his e-cigar and sticking it between his teeth.

"Specifics, lieutenant commander." Itami pressed on in the dark, a few of the Seabees setting up construction lights around. They had two hours. More than enough to get started.

"The Red Cross shrink that occasionally checks up on some of the officers at the Officer's House in the Corridor was saying something about her trying to make her own closure to the events that happened to her. Filling in the blanks with what exists before her. Needless to say when those fill ins are gone, gaps in her mind tend to make her psyche collapse…" it wasn't terribly more specific, but he didn't want to say what. It would compromise the personnel onsite, he knew.

"Revenge. She wants revenge." Emerson had said in his analysis of Blackburn's words, the first blow had as the lights turned on, destroying the light the flames and torches could ever give.

Itami had shook his head at his counterpart's assumption. "No. She wants what she deserves. A father, a family, a home."

"Well, whatever it is," Blackburn had shrugged off his combat vest, no need for it apparently. It felt safe enough. "and it might be both, schedule says you guys are going to be here for a month more. If Captain Emerson's arrangement with Pina goes well, as does Ambassador Suguwara's own dealings, the only soldiers here should be an Embassy Guard and we can, well, just sit on our ass for a year and then go home."

Emerson's eyes looked up. "Just like that?"

Blackburn had smiled at the hope that Emerson breathed in that question. "Yep. Official US policy says that establishing diplomatic relations with the Empire was one of the objectives of Operation Odyssey Ultimatum. Other half of the plan is a bit more tricky, but if we can pull this off without a hitch, I say it's pretty cut and dry from here on out."

"Just like that." Emerson had affirmed. "I say that sounds good."

"Well, Ranger, you know how things go, plans always go to shit when you actually execute them."

Itami had tilted his head. "A little optimism, would you please?"

"Fine, fine. I've got a few care packages for y'all, but I think I can drop this conversation for now. Least for tonight."

Itami and Emerson had remembered who they were standing before in rank as they straightened their forms and stared straight out. He nodded, turning back around to his Seabees and leaving them alone. "As you were."

The way their forms slacked might've told a thousand stories at that point. A lot of them shared, but some crucial ones different, but Itami's dose of bad news from Chuka had held his shoulder, his neck, a bit more at hazard as Emerson had to duck down to see his face, staring down at the hand that held a copy of Chuka's ear.

Emerson had simply clasped his own palm over it. "I'm sure she'll be alright Youji." he brought his hand up as he grasped it, as if they were arm wrestling. "I hear this Blackburn will get us comms to Arnus and Italica, so hell, you can call."

Itami's face had barely lightened, but it was something as he squeezed back, nodding. "Do you think I made the right decision? Leaving her be?"

" _ **Hell no**_." Itami raised his eyebrow, not the answer he was expecting. "But you're scared. I know. I see Tracey in Chuka, and god damn I know I was afraid for my life when I first had to confront him and give him his reality, after Ginza. But some things you have to do out of mercy."

"Mercy?" Itami saw the lie in Emerson's eye as he said that word. His words had weight, and they were true, save that one word. Maybe a better choice would've been called for, but mercy was the word that Emerson picked.

A word he had no knowledge of.

The captain didn't understand the message, so all he did was nod, slide the ear out of Itami's palm as his hand held from his, and walked into the main building.

An empty hand was all Itami had left.

He replaced it with a cigarette.

* * *

"You. I like you." Black's rather outright statement to Seyton and Samnu as they used their claws to open up their packages was true. RCT3 and Hitman had gotten packages both, and as they had set up their bunks in the top two levels of the building as the Seabees and the extra RCT had gotten familiar with the AO they opened up their deliveries.

"It'sssss rather niccee seeing you like children opening presssentsss." Samnu's observatiosn were not lost as RCT3 and Hitman sat on the wooden and stone floors crosslegged as if it was Christmas day.

"What? Good ole' Jay Kay ain't kid enough for yous? He's, like, second or third youngest here."

"Kay issss a very odd individual altogether." Seyton had said, passing over Emerson's particular package over as she sliced through the packaging, the man laying on his own bunk, his cape laid out on his back like a sheet.

Some had preferred privacy to their own unboxings, but the unashamed had dumped the contents of their care packages on their beds or on the floor in front of them. Perhaps most unashamed had been Masterson and Kurata.

Or, more specifically, Kurata, Masterson having no one to have a care package sent by.

The interests had been about the same however, culminating in about three good stacks of manga and doujinshi. Masterson had wrapped his arms around the man's head as they both looked on in awe at everything they had missed in the last six months being laid before them.

"You're my favorite person here Kurata, you know that?" was his excuse to grab a volume of the ever ongoing Beserk like a teenager with the comics of old.

"Oh god. This is great! It's been forever since I've had a backlog!" Kurata had said as he tossed himself on his bunk. Just as Scrooge McDuck had his money to swim in, Kurata had his papers and papers of printed volumes. "There's something about chipping away at a backlog that is so satisfying, don't you think lieutenant?... Lieutenant?"

Itami had been already mind and soul deep in his own issue of Mei Com, he and Kurata's care packages being entirely of manga. He needed the escape, and upon looking at his lieutenant Kurata understood he needed it. That had been the purpose of manga and anime, to Masterson's understanding.

A danger in disguise to some.

"Hmmph. Slightly irresponsible." Bannon rumbled as she sat on a wicker chair by the window, leaning out into the night of the Capital. She hadn't had any care package as well, and she didn't appreciate manga to the same measure as those in the room. One ear of hers had been plugged however from her music player, playing music from the country this Special Region supposedly belonged to.

"Come again, ma'am?" Loke had asked as she had sat in a corner with Kurokawa, trading pictures of family members and pick me up mementos.

"Sergeant Bannon is probably wondering why over half of you all got shitty comics and play things instead of, I don't know, things that might actually help you out in the field."

Ramirez, as old as he sounded saying that, was one of the only veterans there. Of all the things to be veterans of, he had been a veteran of three wars in less than a decade. He had long known the path he was supposed to walk on the roar of war up to and including gifts from home.

For him it had been the usual of baby wipes, new socks, and his own backlog of newspaper from San Francisco. That ontop of a letter from home.

"Those newspaper have a tactical advantage?" Shino had asked, a knife sharpening stone the main takeaway from her package, sent by her news caster sister. "And what the hell, newspapers? Really?"

"Just actionable intel for when I go back home, Sergeant Kuribayashi. After a deployment you don't even come close to realizing how much you missed when you're out in some sandbox." he had taken his stack in hand, the grayish paper crumpling underneath his fingers as he leaned in and huffed on an issue from December. "That and it smells like home."

"Yeah? If you miss home so much why don't you go back for good? You've done your time. You're not like us JSDF." Pops had said as he had the sensibilities to follow the advice of the veterans he had known. His daughter had been getting married soon, not that she had known. This care package had been from her fiancée warning him with a written plan of how it was going to go down, and a promise for pictures to be taken of the moment of the proposal.

"You guys need an old vet like me around, keep your god damn heads on straight with your first war."

"But this isn't a war." Pops had shot back to an unamused Ramirez, the man simply thumbing into his first newspaper issue.

"Hmph. As you say. But I don't think the Brass is fooling anyone. There are many ways to wage war and I've been a soldier in those escapades for many years. Walks like a duck, quacks like one…"

Kurokawa had looked up from her own care package, another ribbon for her hair having been sent by her niece. She could barely use it, her hair having still been recovering from Italica. "What are casualties like in war?" one of her own teachers in medical training had been an American expat, a veteran of Afghanistan. She had long heeded the words of veterans to great effect, her idealism not lost despite it all.

Ramirez had licked his old lips, Hitman looking at him carefully. It was a subject they'd danced with him before in some way.

Harris had been chewing on some package Lebanon Bologna from home as he stopped and pointed out one of his large fingers. "George isn't from the Fourth Ranger Battalion originally."

Emerson had remembered his own first introductions to the older man as he chewed n some nicotine gum. His first piece actually. It was best to be pro-active in his mind, not only in addiction but otherwise. He turned over in his bed. "A transfer from the First Ranger Battalion."

A Ranger had looked up from the stuffed animal her child had sent her. "A survivor more like it."

"My battalion was destroyed during the assault on Tehran… the actual assault on the City was fine, the populace shoved out the Iranian military to the outskirts minimizing collateral damage, but trying to get to the city was…"

Doc had remembered the lesson he had taken from the tale of Ramirez, the man eating from a bag of chips his own family sent him. "Can't save 'em all, right?" a Ranger spoke aloud.

"You try your god damn hardest, but yet…actual combat casualties are something very horrible, Mari. Just... yeah, just imagine if you were a medic for the Imperials at Italica. You could the god damn greatest medic in the world, but you couldn't be able to save them all.

Emerson had stepped in before it had all gone south, pictures of his family in hand along with bulk bag of toothbrushes, razers, and deodorant. His brother had never been the most organized of people. "How are the families doing, Hitman?"

"Dead to me."

"I don't care."

Masterson and Bannon elicited a few laughs around, but they were true answers. The two sergeants weren't offended as they shook it off. It had risen some concern in RCT3 however, on how crass and easily the two team leaders had said it.

"Uhm, right." Emerson had looked down at his own before he put them into his wallet. Apparently John's new class had loved him enough to take a group picture with them. His parents had been doing well apparently, the new house having a photo itself. Asides from that John Emerson's class had actually sent him a bundle of well-meaning letters like any good elementary school would during an American War. "Anyone else?"

"My best friend had to go fishing himself this year on our New Year's retreat." Loke's grievances hadn't been that bad, Ortiz taking hard drags outside with the fact he had gotten his "Dear John" letter in the form of a printed email.

Master Sergeant Nishina from RCT3 had gone out to comfort him fast. The man had been happily married.

Parents, girlfriends and boyfriends, cousins, best friends. Across RCT3 and Hitman the general feeling was the same: people were doing well.

Still, it wasn't like these type of letters were supposed to make their recipients depressed unless the writers didn't care.

Asides from Masterson and Bannon, the only members there that hadn't gotten any letters had been Khan, but he had been content with the collective action to offer him some of the snacks that had come with the care packages around.

"Why'd you name him Khan anyway?" one of RCT3 had walked over and tried to pet him as he had chewed over on a leftover bone from the street he had picked up before he made it to the main building. Doc had been quick to pick out that it had been human humerus, not that anyone would dare try to deprive the dog of his treat.

Khan had barely been bothered by the rough petting as he heard his name called, ears upright and teeth barred. The voice was unfamiliar, and thus he was drawn into a different state of alertness.

"Hoh. Down Khan." the dog's mind had clicked and he was as he was, Peters' voice calming him down as he answered, rubbing the German Shepherd's combat harness, a few extra mags on some of the Velcro. "His original trainer called him Khan, not us. But as I was told he wrecked an officer's lunch after being left alone. The lunch was Chinese."

"Genghis Khan?" Shino had guessed from the inspiration, and Peters had nodded.

"We had to leave him behind during the first wave over, but he was there at Ginza actually, when Bravo deployed." Emerson pointed at the dog, Khan mistaking the hand as if Emerson was offering something, running over and jumping onto the bunk. " _ **Christ!**_ "

Khan was giant, almost as big as Emerson when laying down, but dogs were precious beings naturally and meant no inherent harm, the dog sniffing and licking his captain's face as he finally surrendered one Slim Jim, getting off and making RCT3 back away as the Rangers hadn't minded.

Peters had taken the beef stick from his mouth and unwrapped it, the dog devouring it before being interested in something else and going to the window, propping up on two legs and looking out to Bannon.

"Hey there hun'." was her simple greeting as she ran her hands on his head, both staring out into Akusho as the Seabees and Blackburn below had gotten their work done. Apparently they had wanted to go all night and RCT1 would be more than ready to cover them.

With RCT1 had come a JSDF major, and he had been downstairs running through a briefing with the civilian contractors and the locals from the Corridors who volunteered to run the PX.

Needless to say that major (and not Blackburn), had been the reason why some of the more contraband-like objects had been hidden away in rolled up pants and underneath mattresses at the moment.

As much as Emerson had ground down Harris for his supposed intent to fuck the locals, he couldn't say anything about the bottle of Jack that had presented to him on behalf of RCT3 and his Hitmen as a peace offering of "please don't say anything sir".

He couldn't say anything anymore anyway, not with what he had done in the Capital on the auspices of blending into the culture. That and the JSDF man on the bunk across from him, Tomita, rumor around the Rose Order during training sessions was that Bozes was captivated and vice versa.

As far as mixing went in that regards, even the cultural clamp had been slowly falling apart to Pierce's and Hazama's horror. For Hazama it was more of a matter that the cultural mixing had introduced an American way to the scheme.

It was rather ludicrous all together, amid all the talk of families, toiletries, gifts from home, Seyton and Samnu had sat with two Rangers in their laps as they shared an issue of Hustler. On the cover had been, amazingly, Myui's maids: Delilah in particular.

With the travel back and forth between the Special Region and Japan, it was no question why some pictures had turned up of the humanoids, the women of the other side. All of them had been rather fetching, and men in the military could appreciate that in every way but the ones that they couldn't get away with.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 45**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital –**_ _ **Akusho,**_

 _ **Underneath The Devil's House**_

* * *

RCT3 had been on point with Seyton and Samnu as they saw the basement for themselves after a rather casual breakfast. Emerson had taken off toward Sadera Hill again to "have a chat" with Pina now that an enemy force had, for all intents and purposes, occupied a ward within the Imperial Capital.

The Rangers had taken overwatch, letting RCT1 and the Seabees set up inside the closed off section of Akusho. Attention had been gathering regarding it like some new, grand opening of a restaurant or a new theater in the modern world. Even a few Imperial soldiers had showed up.

Nothing violent however had come to pass as the Rangers were allowed to see the waves of people go on their daily urban lives in the Imperial Capital as Emerson had for the last month.

The cloaks they had had hidden them in plain sight all the same, their design very much highlighting it had been of Imperial decree what was happening inside the block.

About twenty or so feet down however, no such attention was given as RCT3 had borrowed some of Hitman's NVGs, the flashlights on their battle rifles turned on as Blackburn and a few Seabees followed behind them, their own rifles up and out.

One of them had poked the dirt ceiling, a few wooden supports dotting the pathway in front of them.

"So, cultists, right?" he asked aloud.

Seyton grumbled. "Worssshiperssss of Rory, Emroy'ssss Aposssstle. They used to take sacrafices on the street a few months ago. Made our usual streets unsafe to work at for a while. Are you familiar?"

Itami had froze as he threw one hand up, a torch fixture being lit by him and illuminating that path just barely. "Oh yeah, we're all familiar…. How is Rory Lieutenant Commander Blackburn?"

The man had pushed forward as two of his Seabees set up a construction lamp to shine down the dirt tunnel. It was high and wide enough to comfortably fit RCT3 as they kept pushing down, making sure it was clear and safe. His massive Mark23 handgun had been his own, the counterweight that was the LAM and flashlight module hanging off the bottom lighting up the hallway as it moved. Perhaps it was his badge in this world of being a SOCOM handler, as the gun was designed by the Special Operations Commander specifically for its operators, but whatever it was it had been his first requisition order he had pulled on this side of the Gate, testing the mettle of the JSDF's control over the Special Region.

"Rory's just being Rory I guess… she been getting bored of her MP job I think."

"Yeah?" Itami had asked, the giant industrial light providing much need illuminance as the tunnel was more or less fully revealed to their vision.

"Had a few complaints from the Warlords and the Type-74 crewmen, said she been trying to dare them to fight, give her a challenge."

"Anyone bite?"

"Nah. Though still, I had to order some beehive rounds for their guns. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case she turns hostile."

Itami huffed once through his noise, unbelieving. "Doubt it."

"Hey, Hitler said he wouldn't invade Czechoslovakia."

"So she's Hitler now?"

"No, I've talked with her, she's seen her fair share of Hitlers in this region over the years. She knows better…. I think she's nice. Like talking to my mother." Itami had given Blackburn a blank stare as he justified what he had said. "I'm sure Hazama's got a contingency plan with Rory."

Itami sucked in his lips and only nodded, three of his fingers limply rubberbanding in a point down range, Shino had pushed forward with several riflemen. She held her rifle slightly at an angle, still up and forward at the ready, but the ejection port was pointed up and out as her nightvision goggles got in the way of the cheekweld. The tunnels had split off into several sections, several tracks, but as they had gotten to the crossroads Tomita simply patted her shoulder twice, pointing down one path as they claimed that tunnel for exploration, the other riflemen stacking up and pushing down.

They were completely silent.

"Shit, you guys move like Rangers." Blackburn's words echoed down the tunnels enough for Shino to smirk.

"We trained with Hitman this last month." Itami had said, inwardly flexing his arms as he crossed them, feeling a bit more tone than he had expected. Bannon knew how to push people in PT and routine training.

"What do you think about the Rangers?"

"What do you mean?"

The Seabees pushed on, their kits full with not ammo, but infrastructure supplies.

"You're special forces capable, true special forces even, what do you think?"

"And the Rangers aren't?"

Blackburn shrugged. "They're elite light infantry. If we need a frontline broken, a territory taken and held, or some other direct action op, they're on deck. But for this type of infiltration shit? It ain't what they were trained for."

"You know by experience?"

"Oh yeah." these tunnels had reminded Blackburn of his weeks in Seoul, coordinating the guerilla resistance. It was a home coming almost, perhaps which was why he had felt so chipper. Other than that it had reminded him of the smuggling tunnels that ran beneath Mexico and South America with the cartels. "I've worked with Deltas, SEAL Team Six, Green Berets, and even some MARSOC during my time in SOCOM. I've never had Rangers on ops to grab HVTs or anything in South America, it ain't their specialty."

Itami had frowned defensively. "Well, in my personal opinion I think you couldn't have gotten a better _**people**_ for the job."

He didn't quite agree. "Fair enough, fair enough."

The beasts had gone with the point teams, light coming from each of them as RCT3 set up flares and light sources.

"Need anything?"

"Huh?" Itami had looked over to Blackburn as he slid through his tablet. The man looked more like an office worker than a lieutenant commander.

"Didn't you hear? I'm handling a lot of the logistics for the 7th. Why do you think I'm here?"

"A supply officer?"

"Ah, more or less. Might be below a man of my current stature, but anything the Pentagon tells me to do I'll do. Might as well put it to use."

"Well, do I need anything?" Itami asked aloud.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 45**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital – Sadera Hill, Eastern Mansion**_

* * *

An Imperial greeting, two kisses to the cheeks and held arms. Emerson was Kay Ro Bronxon, at least while he was on Royal ground.

"Princess."

"Kay."

"I don't suppose I left too much of a mess behind at the party?"

"Could've been worse."

There had been something of a throne room in the Eastern Mansion, Pina's own copy of Emperor Molt's current throne. It hadn't been as grand or big, but it was her own as the Imperial Princess.

He had remembered how he had to bow before the Emperor when he, and he alone, had met with the Emperor. He had kneeled before Pina the same way.

 _"You have eaten my food, slept in the chambers of my family, and sat before me at meals. We have talked as men do, and not as subject to an emperor, and yet you still kneel before me today?"_

 _Emperor Molt had seemed almost taunting of Emerson as he was called to the emperor that morning, a week after Foulke was slain._

 _"Rise." he had said in his furs and his clothes of violet, red, and blues, his arm raising Emerson up from his kneel._

 _"I simply take after Pina's mannerisms with you, Emperor Molt." Emerson responded simply, his arm resting on his Winchester's stock, poking out of its holster on his hip. "She has been a wonderful host."_

" _Why yes. Her mother might not be of the breed, but she has certainly taken the correct portions of her blood to heart." Lord Marcus had been on his side as his senatorial advisor, but with one flick of the hand he had been sent away, leaving the emperor and Emerson alone. "Tell me, what do you think of my children, as an outsider?"_

" _May I ask why you pose such a question, Emperor?"_

" _If you are at all indicative your American civilization, you do not to seem to hold judgement over people as we do. As if you don't hold your rightful place in the world to full capability. You talk with the slaves, the maids, the senators and the plebeians all the same as you do me, quite frankly. I must wonder how you view these people personally."_

 _A reflection of his views would paint a picture of who he was, in relation to other people. The emperor knew this, and Emerson did not, despite his status as an aspiring politician._

 _He was not one to overanalyze before great powers however. He had hardly the developed mannerisms to steel himself to such situations._

 _He answered from the youngest up. "Pina, I can speak most accurately about her. She is a woman beyond her years, great leadership skills, or, at least, ambition disguised as leadership skills."_

 _"Of all my children she was always the most… unsteady in her words. Nervous."_

 _"She is a nervous one, yes, but all things considered she has always groomed herself more to be a knight than royalty."_

 _"It wasn't my intention when I had allowed her Rose Order to take shape, nearly a decade ago, however I was not in any worry. Her place as only tenth in line did not necessitate the grooming I had done with Zorzal or Diabo."_

 _Emerson looked up at the high marble ceiling, the church like glass beaming light through onto him and made his skin lighter than he had ever seen. "I worry Pina's current leadership is only because she has the blood of Royalty."_

"Zorzal unfortunately took hold of the leftovers and presented them to Emperor Molt. The emperor expects you to share some of these culinary secrets of America."

"Well, might be a problem, half the damn food was Japanese anyway."

"Your food will come this way soon enough anyway, so I hear, Emerson?"

"The Japanese set up some utilities and a store in Akusho, similar to the stores in the Corridor. It might not be gourmet, but it'll be a rather tasteful array when it's full swing."

"Hmph. What brings you back here, Kay?"

"I wanted to check on you, one last time, before the peace deliberations set off." Emerson rose and walked up the steps to her.

"Worry in your voice?"

"I know you Pina, how you've fought with me. Combat reveals more than just the ability of a person to do harm in a fight, it reveals methodology, and by god you've fought dirty in these last few sessions."

"You're worried about the position I would take the peace deliberations now that I have two options."

America and Japan.

"In a way, yes. I'm more scared of the third option however."

Independence.

Emerson had darkly laughed, wiping the bottom of his face as he considered words that felt wrong. "The Japanese concessions will put a great strain on Imperial Unity, and although the Hawks and the Doves represent the people altogether, the people will probably not see eye to eye with the decisions made in the senate. They would fight."

"It is the same then, the people have not seen war as we have, the war on our doorsteps. They will know better when they see it."

Pina looked for war, for battles for her Rose Order. Emerson wasn't surprised she said this, especially with her new and improved Rose Order learning from each, the origin of it him. He had left that tidbit out of the reports he had sent back to Arnus Hill and High Command: that he was teaching how he fought, how he thought, to America's allies on Capital Hill. He had also left out details of his own gladiator career.

What he had did sent back however was that the Special Task Force had not confronted the Imperial Legions on fair ground yet. War wasn't supposed to be fair, albeit if such a situation presented Emerson feared that it would've been a fair fight.

That meant casualties.

The artillery corps in the Empire were being expanded beyond conceivable thought, and they had been a few of the viable assets the Imperial Legions had to counter the Special Task Force. More dragons were being bred, orks and trolls offered fair wages and living conditions if they came to fight for Molt himself, and, unbeknownst to Emerson, the Rose Order had come to train the remaining Legionnaires down, finally having a place in the Imperial ranks.

Emerson was not as innocent as to assume that there hadn't been a secret project or two brewing beneath him, but worst come to worst he would burn it all down with his Hitmen. Especially if the Japanese Senate's continuing fear of biological warfare being enacted were to be verified as valid.

There was something more however: the tenacity of the common people to wage war in ways that militaries could not.

In Syria and Iran, it was argued that it was a fed up populace that had stopped the conflicts there for all time with such brutality, such reverence for their own lives, the American military found itself buried alive in the Middle East with no escape but to stabilize the situation.

In Iran especially, the Iranian military had been evicted from their defensive positions by rioting civilians.

It was only by their will that Tehran fell as it did.

"Do you worry about this Empire?"

"I have lived as an Imperial for a month of my life. It would be a loss if such destruction, on any level, economic, physical, or political, were to happen without a quick and appropriate rebirth."

"I doubt this Empire will disintegrate Captain Emerson, the Special Task Force are not a band of barbarians after all. We are not Rome." she paused for a moment, thinking of her siblings. "Besides, I think our problem lies not in War versus Peace anymore. I think it lies in America versus Japan."

" _What?_ "

"Zorzal is convinced that the Americans are the key to beating the enemy on Arnus Hill."

"I can imagine Kouji is making a stink about that then…"

"Would you rather me pursue the American option, Kay?"

"I'd rather you stall for peace in general, and wait until America can get an embassy in Akusho with Japan."

"But what if the Empire choose the American option? You've beaten Japan before, they owe you, certainly-"

" _ **Princess.**_ " Emerson said with such intensity, such disgust, Pina had forgotten she was a princess with the tone he had addressed her by. "Wars are not so easily declared in our day and age, especially against allies."

But for Pina, as she had glared her eyes for a second, for one moment Emerson wasn't able to discern. Her reading into the modern world's history had told her Emerson was wrong.

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 45_**  
 ** _Falmart – Italica – Camp Kilgore, Medical Tent_**

* * *

Chuka had awakened one day after in the morning with little complications, Rory having taken Itami's advice to heart and played with the lie. Upon the question of her wounds and why there was a bruise on her forehead done by a Marine that had to knock her out, Rory had simply explained that she had slipped on something which caused her to rip her knuckles and knock out her.

Super Sergeant Wilbur and Staff Sergeant Lumaban had found her and brought her to Camp Kilgore before she suffered a night alone in the wilderness.

Then came the question of why she was out there in the first place.

"You were on a walk." Lelei's simple and polite answer as she sat on her bedside was true in some twist of the facts.

"Oh. Where is Father then? He must be worried sick about me!"

"He's on a walk right now, actually." Rory had answered, her Halberd slightly poking the tent's roof up to the medics dismay. "He's uhm, scouting for the men in green, so he might not be back for a while, yeah!"

Chuka had thrown up her bandaged hands, one of the nurses looking over in concern. She had thrown them up in frustration. "Ugh! Ever since the JSDF came all he does is work with them, he hardly ever sees me."

The refugees had come to Chuka again seeing as they had clearly cared for her, the token three whose names had been known through the Special Task Force casually. They hadn't been the only ones greatly cooperating with the force, but they had always been the special ones, the pets so to speak.

"Oh Chuka, such reverence for your father. What ever shall you do when you leave home and get married?" Rory teased.

"Oh it is much too soon, especially for my people. I still have hundreds of years of futures and dreams to live before I possibly think of doing such." she blushed, holding her hands to her cheeks. Her hands had been rough, like a soldier's. Rougher than Lelei's as a nomad, rougher than Rory's as someone who had lived nearly a millennia.

It was disconcerting.

Such frail, pale hands, thin, but worn in the span of two months.

"What is it you dream about my dear?" Rory had asked Chuka, grabbing one of her hands and patting it down.

"I do admit, ever since the Gate opened, ever since we went to the other side, I dream about other worlds."

* * *

It was decided that Chuka herself needed a walk, that and the Marines there hadn't been comfortable with housing the girl for long. They had their orders with her, but anyone with any emotional sensibilities knew that Chuka needed help.

The refugees would have to do for now.

"I have to wonder, Lelei, what was Italica like before the Americans came?"

"Italica was a very rich town before. Even today, despite the orders of the Emperor, the highways are still in heavy use."

Despite the fact everything between Italica and the capital had been victim to a burnt earth strategy. To many of the refugees between there and there, the Corridor was the preferable choice.

"Even moreso, perhaps." Lelei's totebag had been a bit fuller than she had ever remembered it being at least in terms of cash. Nomads hadn't been one to carry much wealth, however even if she had a different opinion on wealth there was hardly a chance for her to gain as such.

Italica had offered her opportunity, Bannon had taught her how to use it.

It was very simple really. The best price for both consumer and provider had been the only price available. That price was dictated by Lelei and Bannon's understanding of the local economy. Apparently the last lords hadn't been too fair with their prices, gouging everything they could from the peasants that lived under them. That is if they hadn't been in some form of serfship that was slavery in all but name.

To treat them less harshly had been the same as positive reinforcement.

Any dissenters had simply been put under by the fact they were also "paying" for the Special Task Force's protection who had to consider the alternative: be cast out back into the Empire.

There was a reason why Bannon wanted to keep this under wraps.

It was buried underneath enough paperwork anyway, much of it untranslatable to the common language of law to Masterson's observations.

They passed a quasi-Japanese restaurant made from the template of a saloon, "Furata's" was its name, and it had been a very popular adaptation of some of RCT3's cook's recipes. It was a fairly successful operation after the populace had been taught how to use fork and knives (Also for those forks and knives not be stolen and used as impromptu shanks in back alleys the MPs couldn't cover).

Unfortunately Lelei couldn't fully partake in the new culinary pursuits in the Corridor, she being a vegetarian. Strangely enough Chuka had her own aversion to meat as well, and Rory didn't need food at all supposedly. Still for Rory experiencing new tastes was still within her capability as a demigoddess.

Making new friends especially within the task force was within her interests. These were probably the last new friends she was going to make in her last sixty years of some sort of mortality. She couldn't have thought them a better lot.

"Do you want to get something to eat Chuka? You haven't eaten for a day, you must be starving." Rory had taken out a few bills from her stockings, the notion of a purse, pockets, of a wallet not as readily accepted by her as her want for a gun.

Chuka had nodded eagerly as they dashed into the resturaunt. For them there would always be a table open.

* * *

 ** _Falmart – The Imperial Capital – Akusho_**

* * *

It was opening day for the new PX, barely a day having passed since the Seabees came with Blackburn and did their magic. Setting up a PX was old hat at this point to them, and they had done a damned good job to Emerson's observations. It looked like the PX inside Yokota, even a Walgreens if it hadn't been for some of the wood construction.

In fact Emerson had fooled himself he was back home at his local pharmacy as he had taken a bottle of sleeping pills from the rack, Blackburn apparently not concerned about the accidental overdoses as the other PX managers.

"Chewable soup lemants?" one of the new customers had said besides Emerson. All the other buildings under construction by the Seabees had been closed up, but the roads and this PX had been open.

"Supplements." Emerson had answered to the man, a bandana around his head and an eyepatch donned over a pupil. Another one of the gladiators apparently.

"Is that so Kay?" he asked.

"Yeah, eat about one or two every day and your body will be strong like mine."

"What happens if I eat them all at once….?"

"I wouldn't recommend it."

"Whatever you say." Emerson had given him a pat on the back as he walked down the aisle, the cashiers up front. On the way he had seen Masterson haul out a few rather sizable boxes on his own as Bannon stood guard outside with her cloak, opening the glass sliding doors open and closed as if she herself was a gate keeper.

RCT1 and RCT3 had been posted on the rooftops still on over watch, but there hadn't been any trouble yet as Emerson waited in line for customers to pay and bag their orders. Unlike the other PXs, this had been an America Post-Exchange, based on the designs on the brown paper bags that were being used. More specifically it had been the "The Army & Air Force Exchange Service". A sight for sore eyes.

"Only is Disney World have I seen an odder line, Captain Emerson." the ever feisty voice of Shino had made Emerson tilt his head, Shino and Harris standing with their own bagged goods. Interestingly enough Shino had been smoking a cigar.

Emerson hadn't seen Shino's point, but then again he had been standing in line with a rather motley crew of animals and humans, many of them unsure of what they were buying from assorted candies to assorted hand tools to assorted towels and fabrics. This hadn't been the first time he had seen modern fabric in the Capital, even the stylings, but this was the first time it had been sold "Since when did you smoke Sergeant Kuribayashi?

Harris pointed at him. "Ever since the cool kids like you smoke."

Emerson rolled his eyes as Shino nodded in agreement. "Difference between me and her is that I need it. Cut that shit out sergeant, smoking's bad for you."

"You ain't in the position to tell me to smoke or not, captain."

"Trust me, I've been thinking about you and your actions a lot while I've been here Shino."

Emerson had been at the front of the line as he had said that, the cashier being one of the civilian contractors, raising an eyebrow as Emerson's pills had gone to the counter, the man unconsciously laying a few denarii forward. Shino crossed her arms with her own eyebrow raised. "I'm flattered Captain Emerson, but Sergeant Masterson is more my taste."

"Uhm, sir?" the cashier had called Emerson to his attention, the Japanese man with curly hair and an apron.

"Yeah?"

"Don't have any modern cash on you?"

"Wha-?" Emerson looked at what he had put down. "Oh, yeah, sorry." the locals would have such luck with their money, but not Emerson, the man slapping down a five dollar bill. He had been out the door before the change could be given, his two fingers pointed at the two members of RCT3 and Hitman as they exited the door.

A rose had been thrown his way by an onlooking admirer, he had waved that person off as he had thrown the rose back into the pond. Being a de-facto celebrity due to the arena hadn't been bad, but it was also something Shino had wanted in a way.

"Harris I've already drilled your ass for trying to drill the asses of a few questionable Japanese women, so I'm done with you, but Sergeant Kuribayashi…" Harris had held his hands up guilty. He had gotten away easy he thought. At least Emerson hadn't brought his wife and child into the whole ethical process of fucking abroad. The captain sat down on the edge of a pond as Harris turned around and provided security, idly standing his backup rifle across his chest, his M60 not something he would lug around on a short PX trip across the street.

"Is there a problem sir?" she asked, her helmet still on.

"Yeah, there is." he had taken off his own helmet, running his hand through his short hair and licked his lips. "I just want to make this clear to you, I don't want none of your "spec ops bad ass" bullshit here."

"What do you mean sir?"

"You know what I mean, Sergeant Kuribayashi. Charging into the battle, into our firing lines, wanting to get hands on with the enemy. You throw your god damn tactical training out of the window and it puts your life at risk, but also ours."

"I'm just doing my job as best-"

Emerson stood up. He towered over Shino and he made sure she knew it. "If you were doing your job right, that knife of yours, those bayonets, they wouldn't have any blood on them. You're a god damn infantry grunt, not some a SOG. _Don't insult us_." he crossed his own arms, looking down on her as she looked away. "Look at me in the eye."

Emerson knew how to change the fighting opinion of opponents really fast at that point. She didn't look up. "Is that an order?" he heard.

"Yes." she looked up at him. "Sergeant, I get it, you like killing people, but there's a time and place for it and it's not here. So fall in line an-"

"I… like killing people?" She asked Emerson, Harris turning around for a glance, unsure of what he heard.

Emerson shook his head, his mouth forming into a thin line. "Or the glory, the rush of battle, one of those things. Whatever it is it has no place here."

* * *

"Hmph. Looks like Jay Kay is grilling Shino's ass out there." Doc had peered through the windows on the first floor of the main building, directly across from the PX. Kurata, Kurokawa, Tomita, and he had been given the greenlight by the Major and Blackburn to set up a clinic, a few of the first floor sectioned off with privacy curtains. The one between Kurokawa's and Doc's section had been drawn up however, given a nice view out the window.

"She won't listen." Kurokawa had said simply as she had finished taping a cotton ball on top of where she had poked a needle into a vein, the patient in question uneasy after seeing their own blood drawn out so easily, so cleanly. It had made her feathers ruffle.

She had been another avian like humanoid, not unlike Myuute, the "Siren" captured at Italica who had been on Rory's MP force.

Orders had come down from the top that when opportune blood samples were to be taken from the local populace to check for, if not anything else, STDs.

Hazama had been rather insistent this be done from Italica to Arnus, however data on the Capital would've been nice, and so Kurokawa and Doc had appeased.

They wouldn't know but Yao's and Wilbur's recent show of support for their cause together had made Hazama make sure if it ever came down to the sheets things would've been alright, health wise. It was one of the few things Sevson, Hazama, and Pierce had agreed on.

People were offered PX store credit for a blood test, Seyton and Samnu being the first. That and they had explained they had no problems having sex with humans or other species before. Still, precautions were always needed if things ever hit the sheets.

"Oh yeah? She doesn't seem like an outright stubborn type."

"Nah, you have to beat orders into her. That was on her file according to her previous officer's comments. Seeing as Lieutenant Itami isn't the beating type, you can see why she's acting up."

"Of course." Doc had looked over the current patient, still uneasy after drawing her blood. Of all the volunteers they had all they were getting were prostitutes, they were desperate enough for money to do more than lose blood.

Public trust would be gained eventually. "You alright ma'am?" he had taken the younger woman's hand as he guided her to the table in the middle several chairs and a few snacks put out.

"She'll be alright." A sultry voice, dare say even a sexy one. Tomita had been taking pictures of each subject for the records, all the males pausing as the next one to be sent in by the guards outside had stayed breath.

She had been smoking out of a golden pipe, her white robes barely covering anything on her, and even what had been covered was see through to quite an extent. The white of the fabric on her had matched the supposed purity of her wings, the lightness of her blonde hair that topped off a fairly tall, model like body.

"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" Kurata had let fall out of his mouth, his jaw agape as Tomita himself had paused before snapping off one picture.

Makeup had been on her lips, lined her eyes. Paint on her nails and jewelry on her neck.

Doc had finished seating the woman he was attending to as he approached the beauty. She had been literally an angel, her wings very much alive.

"I was told that there was a nurse here, a doctor?"

Kurokawa had gotten up, the angel turning to her. "That would be me, yes. Do you know why you're here?"

"To give some of my blood so that I may get some benefit from it. But really, I just wanted to see a doctor." Doc and Kurokawa hadn't looked like doctors, their jeans and t-shirts worn by them to look more inviting, but the people that came in really didn't care. They knew they served the Demon Lord and came in with that apprehensiveness.

The angel didn't care.

"Need to see a doctor for anything in particular ma'am?"

"Ma'am?" The angel repeated Doc's words. "Please, just call me Mizari."

"Well, Mizari-san, come sit with us." Kurokawa had motioned to a seat in between her own and Doc's. She did, crossing her legs and holding the pipe in between her lips as the two women waited on Doc.

"You sure there isn't something in the water, Doc?" Kurata had whispered into his ear.

"Well, I suppose it would be the Empire's best export in due time." he had muttered back, slowly taking a seat as he was enveloped by the unnatural glow this angel had given off.

"You do know we're gonna draw some blood from you, right?"

"That is fine, as long as it isn't going to be used to Bronxon's Rory rituals."

"Huh? Oh no, just purely scientific and medical inquiries to be made here. Nothing of that sort."

"Whatever you say. This is the Devil's House still though." she said with a light chuckle, Doc turning away and getting the proper supplies ready for a new pint.

The Devil's House had been what that building had been called, Emerson's knights having all came into it and claimed it as their own. The owner of the property, and the block for that matter, had disappeared. He had been sent to the Corridor for a new life, but the commoners wouldn't know that outright.

"Is there something in particular you wanted to see a nurse for, Mizari-san?" Kurokawa asked gently, Mizari's wings fluttering, a feather haven fallen off and onto Doc's table as he had gotten the surgical scrub ready, another needle and another tubing lined up to a bag. He had smirked as he saw it all before him: after he had been cancer free his new outlook on life had brought him to a crossroads. The roads had either led to him joining the Red Cross or joining the military.

Sometimes he regretted the choices he made, but either way he would've ended up here eventually he figured.

"One of my friends who is in the same trade of work noticed you were selling these." she had drawn a bottle of pills from her robe: Birth control. "This isn't some lie, is it? What is Plan A?"

Doc had shook his head as he took out his prescription writing pad. He had done the same thing over and over again with the other prostitutes. "You're not supposed to share that." Kurokawa had sterned. "and yes, it does exactly what it says."

The labels had been translated, but to the moderners it was fairly obvious it had been the fallback plan of dubious decisions.

"If the man in question doesn't give you a choice of protection, you can pop a pill of that and should save you from dealing with nine months of further labor."

"Wow." was all she had said before she had taken one in front of the medics to their surprise. "Guess I need it."

"We aren't one to judge." Doc had said rather brazenly, the blood bag being written on with her name. "You have a last name?"

"No."

"Got it." Mizari-Angel had been the name put on the bag.

"Business is always up whenever there's some threat of disaster floating around Akusho. Men always looking for the great final fuck of their lives. The Legionnaires are always such dependable customers…" her reminiscing had been in concert with the smoke, Kurokawa not minding as she had taken the angel's hand and led her to a bed for Doc to do the procedure. "How long will this take?"

"Maybe thirty minutes or so?"

"Mmm. Seyton and Samnu, such dears they are, they told me you guys come from Arnus Hill, is that true?"

"What would it matter to you, eh?" Doc had rolled up on his chair, a tray and bloodbag on his lap as he had taken her right arm, she laying down. He found a vein through her rather pale skin, tracing it with a marker.

"Just wondering, I'm not too fond of the state, but I've heard many fantastical rumors from the legionnaires that come by me at night."

"Yeah, well, all anyone hears is rumors nowadays, eh Mari?" Kurokawa had straightened out the surgical tubing as Doc attached the prick, a wipe with the brownish scrub going ontop of the vein in the middle of her arm.

"It's not hard to tell that we aren't from here, Mizari-san." the angel raised an eyebrow in Kurokawa's rather condescending attitude.

"Easy Mari. You've been slapped by one patient already, this one looks like they can kill."

"Oh please, doctor, I like someone who can bite bite their words as opposed to their mouth once in a while."

"Once again, not judging." Doc had put his arms on his knees as put the tray on the floor, the tubing in one hand, a stress ball in another. "Keeping squeezing this, and you might feel a pinch."

The needle had gone in with little complaint, the blood quickly going into the bag, mounted on a metal holder at the foot of the bed.

"I don't suppose I can convince you to stop this particular trade of yours, Miss Mizari?' Doc had asked as he leaned back and waited, closing the privacy curtain.

"And do what?"

"Whatever you can. Just not that." Kurokawa's concern had been in her voice, serious, if not pleading in some way.

"Oh there's hardly a place in the world for me if it's not opening my legs for men to enjoy. What concern is it of you?"

Doc had to be frank here to Kuokawa's disapproval, a notepad with his signature and prescription on it. "I'm just wondering how many Plan Bs I'm gonna have to sign off on."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor**_

* * *

"Emroy wants them to be here. Indeed, many of the gods do as well I believe."

"You believe?"

"Emroy is never particular about his rules, his orders. Even the temples have a hard time knowing his intent. Even I as an apostle do not have a clear picture on his will."

"I believe the Americans have a term for this in English."

Chuka twitched her ears. "And what would that be?"

"They don't give a fuck."

A few of the Special Task Force soldiers in earshot had done a double take at the rather innocent Lelei speaking English in that way, all she did was simply wave as they quickly saluted.

The question had been if Emroy at all had noticed the new influx of souls to his domain through Rory. It had been a war like no other after all, and the two refugees had wondered if Emroy tolerated it along with the other gods.

Rory had been quick to learn the language to understand it, a burst of laughter coming from her. "Oh, I don't believe so. However if Emroy wants me to do something, I will do it without complaint, without resistance."

"Even if those orders were to rid Arnus Hill of the Special Task Force?"

"Of course! I was chosen to be an Apostle to stop wars, after all."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Back when I was the age this form was I was an acolyte in Emroy's temples. I do not remember clearly, but I was an orphan brought in by the priests there. At the time the mortal disciples of Zufmuut and Emroy were at war for some reason I do not recall."

"I wasn't aware that Emroy and Zufmuut were adversaries." Chuka had said softly. Zufmuut was the God of Light and Order. Naturally the God of Darkness, or, at least their followers, would've had a religious beef with the opposing side.

"The followers interpret them as such. Zufmuut's apostle sees me as an enemy as well still, after all these years. However the Gods themselves did not need such a religious conflict at the time. I was deemed Emroy's new apostle in order to stop that war."

"Because you were the best choice at the time?"

"Supposedly." Rory said sweetly. "Ever since then I have been a good apostle, and I am left to my own devices."

"After all this time?"

She nodded. "I have lived a long, good life, Chuka. I hope that you will do the same, especially with your species' aging traits."

The Marines and GSDF had walked easily on the Corridor streets, their uniforms hardly having any of the combat vests or utilities they had once worn 24/7 a month or so ago. They still carried their rifles, their pistols, but there was little need for them in the peaceful atmosphere. The Special Region had turned from a hellish assignment to a soldier's dream in the span of two weeks or so. The GSDF moreso, some of them even taking supply trucks back through the Gate during downtime to simply go out into Ginza.

Pierce and Hazama had disapproved, more than once an officer had been brought in and be told to take his job seriously and keep his men in the right world, but there were still occasions where nothing could stop someone who wanted to go back home for a few hours.

The Marines had no such luck, but many of the 7th MEU were used to it: cobbled together from Pierce's original unit from Korea and the Middle East. As restless as they were as Marines, it was the same shit different day.

Pierce had thought it was good they were sitting their however. A bored Marine was the most dangerous type of Marine.

At least it hadn't been in some hell hole they were stuck in now; some environmental hell hole that only the arrogance of man kept it civilized.

The climate had been a proper Mediterranean affair on the Corridor's main street. "It is curious as to why Major Sevson detests my insistence on wanting brand stores established here, especially seeing as those businesses are wanting to come over here."

Gas lines, electricity, even a sewer was being dug up and out by the Navy Seabees, the project they had called the Corridor being "Main street USA." All of it integrated to the houses and buildings being established: some cross between the styling of the areas with modern necessitates as befit building codes.

Rory had waved at a pair of her MPs, their rifles slung around their backs as they chatted with a few of the locals. She knew better about commercialism than some, if only because her likeness was being sold as figurines backs in Japan. "Anyone who would want to gain several thousand new customers would be interests, perhaps it wouldn't be in our best interest to have them all here so fast." she warned.

"I fear that the PXs will close to all non-Special Task Force personnel, however."

"Is that a concern?" Chuka asked concern.

"I speak with Major Sevson more than Colonel Pierce, but Pierce has said he's been trying to get the PXs closed as such.'

"Is this any particular concern to you?"

"Hazama is very stubborn with his orders on keeping the PXs open, however there are forces outside the Gate whom control even him. Some of them American."

"I do enjoy this kind of quality of life."

"It might not be here forever, Chuka." Lelei had said in her forever monotone voice. There was knowledge in her voice however, of diligent studying and historical analysis. "I just hope that the people being educated now by the Red Cross and the Marines are able to uphold this."

They rounded a corner on the street, the PX on this road running as usual. This particular example had been special however, a keyboard having been set up in front of it on the wood walk that lined the store front. A crowd of children had surrounded it as their parents and caretakers had shopped. Some of them had been the original refugees, come from Coda Village. Some of the original inhabitants of that village had come back, but still many of the children were left without parents to take care of them.

It was one of Lelei's first "orders" to Myui and Sevson to have them taken care of.

Her first victory had been that these children had been able to live like children again. Lelei herself never had a childhood as she understood it to be, but not everyone was like her, and she was okay with that.

Across ages, disciplines, views on life, the imitation of a piano had sounded beautiful. Manning it had been a very familiar Marine.

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Strawberry Swing – Coldplay**_

 _ **Piano Cover by Sergeant Perla Lumaban**_

* * *

Unsurprisingly the inspiration for the particular song choice was because imported strawberries imported in had been on sale today.

To see a child taste their first banana, their first orange or strawberry, and see the joy of discovery on their face as they bit into something absolutely delicious and now available to them, it had made hearts flutter, ever ysingle time it happened. Smiles would spread and laughter would be had, and lucky were the Marines and the GSDF who saw it every day with new refugees and "immigrants" coming.

"How many can I have Mommy?"

The woman in question had looked at the pricing before smiling down at her child, his face with red juice around his lips, smacking at it. She could afford it.

"As many as you want, honey."

The foreign fruits had always been a popular seller at the PXs, and, as far as the other products had been, they were the most pure, the most innocent and non-threatening. No backfires what so ever.

The refugees had walked up behind Lumaban, playing with the children as she went on, undisturbed.

" _Now the sky could be blue, I don't mind, without you it's a waste of time._ _**Ooooohhhohhh**_." the tone which she had reached in her singing, her soft singing of warmth had been like a gentle bell. " _Could be blue, could be grey, without you I'm just miles awaaaayyy_."

She had leaned back on her stool, at piece, giggling silently to herself. One of her hands had actually held beads and a cross around it.

"I thought Colonel Pierce said no lyrics, Marine."

"Aie!" she had jumped in her own skin.

"Was that singing I was hearing, Sergeant Lumaban?" Rory had asked again. She was familiar with the woman, she had learned faces easily.

"….Yes."

"You're a horrible liar, you know that?" Rory had patted the top of Lumaban's head as she had, for a second, trembled in fear. She hadn't been used to being condescended to by a child, but then again Rory had been her elder by several factors she would never experience.

"But I wasn't lying."

"Exactly." Rory's teasing had been more forward than Lumaban had known. They were all briefed on her and given the ROE if she was ever hostile. In short: dump all the ammo into her body and then throw whatever pieces were left into the furnace.

Lumaban hadn't been one to enact those orders given the fact Rory had been inhaling her scent, having taken her collar and smelled the nape of her neck with a rather sultry whiff, her lips grazing her collar bones.

"Oh, such an aged essence on you. You have done your killing long before you came here."

"Wha-?" her question had been redirected once she had seen Chuka behind her with Lelei, hands wrapped up from two nights ago. "Chuka." she had pushed Rory off of her, ignoring the fact she by smell alone knew she had been to war once before.

"Are you okay dear?" she had knelt before the elf, taking her hands and running her thumbs over. Chuka didn't see why she was doing as such.

"Perla?" Chuka had known Lumaban from beforehand through Wilbur and Yao. Wilbur had been more talkative than some of the Marines, that and he had helped her learn English to the extent her accent had been British in some way.

She missed not having Emerson or Itami around, however Bannon and her Rangers along with RCT3 had been welcome friends without them.

Bannon herself had been so insightful and motherly in her own, almost always gratingly upset way to Lelei, talking to her of what made a good home, a good property, her idea of permanence and what it meant to settle down.

Masterson had trained Rory and her MPs, teaching them how to shoot their rifles like they did. To talk to the talk and walk the walk. Masterson had talked the talk surely.

All of them, RCT3 and Hitman, from lunches, to walks, to lessons and philosophical talk, had treated the refugees, Chuka especially, as family in some way.

Some of the Marines had not been so welcoming, but Perla had not been one of those Marines.

Chuka tilted her head innocently, her ears twitching. "Okay from what? This? Yeah, why?"

 _She didn't know._

As Rory had just identified Lumaban had been a terrible liar. Still she tried. "Oh, nothing, it just looked bad, is all." she stood up, taking a strawberry from the cup that had been on the keyboard. She had bought some for snacking's sake as she played her heart to a calm.

Yesterday a few of the more zealous worshippers of the Warlords had gotten too touchy feely and threw some holy oil into the open hatches of 1-3.

Wilbur had been a man sick of oil already, even if it was just simply olive oil bought from the PX, but the locals had interpreted it as holy in some way. That and he didn't want a flame hazard, some of his men smoked.

It was Perla and her fireteam who had to push back to a surprised townsfolk.

She wished she could offer fruit and sweets more often as she did with Chuka.

"Try it. Strawberry."

"What kind of fruit is it?" she asked as she held the fruit in her hands, ripe, grown from one of California's last remaining crops. The fruit had been still moist, the little spots in its skin seeds that prickled her fingertips.

"It is sweet, very aromatic, juicy. They are shaped like hearts."

Lumaban nodded. "On Sundays my church used to serve these dipped in chocolate to children. My father calls them "Nature's Love"." she said warmly, reminiscing on the past. Before she had been drafted.

Chuka still looked at it skeptically, Lumaban taking off her helmet, her hair held neatly by a pony tail. "I heard you requested an extra shipment of Maraschino cherries, Miss Lelena." she thumbed inside the shop, as busy as ever as Myui's maids had become adept at their jobs as chasiers, some of the Special Task Force inside buying their own things.

Her poker face had been as resilient as ever (that is if she needed one). "They taste good to me."

"In my opinion those type of cherries are more candy than fruit, but I think you've deserved it more than anyone here."

"Major Sevson has been very helpful in establishing infrastructure here. Providing the people the resources they need has proven that they will handle the rest themselves with Myui's original city officials."

Lumaban had laughed still as she had squatted in front of them all, a few children waving goodbye at her, thanking her for the soundtrack of an instrument beyond this world. "Yeah, Sev' is alright. It's Sergeant Major Freeman that you have to look out for, he'll yell even at you."

"Which is why I avoid him by not noticing him."

"Wish I could do that…. What're you guys doing out and about, don't you all have jobs and official functions?"

Rory had looked up in the sun after stabbing her halberd into the dirt, staring up into the clear blue sky, reveling the hustle and bustle of main street. "It's a nice day out, and my police seem to have been "keeping the peace" as you Americans say."

"Madam Myui wishes to handle governance herself for a while. Practice, as she tells me."

"…I just woke up. Heh… What are you doing out here, Perla? Isn't this the time you're supposed to be resting for night watch?"

Perla had looked left and right fast, putting her hand left of her mouth as if concealing her words from someone or something. "I sleep on duty sometimes. Nothing happens at night. Secret between me and you, kay?"

"As much as a secret as your singing will be." Rory had continued with her teasing. There had been a certain high she had gotten being around the Americans in particular. Though the Japanese had been good for a quick jolt of invigoration to her more primal senses, the Americans had buzzed her so sensually, so purely, it had taken quite some time for her to control herself properly.

Emerson, Bannon, and Masterson in particular. They had been so rich in the flavor of Americana it was almost a relief they had disappeared into the capital for a planned month.

Although not stated Lelei had also seen something of the same uniqueness in the aura of the trio and Itami. The aura, the essence of magic that they had tainted as they walked and permeated through their being.

Every individual had their own mark on magic, even if they weren't capable of using it, but some had been more unique than others. Just as Lelei had been herself. In what ways had been up to interpretation, a placebo effect more likely than not, but it was still something Lelei had observed.

Her research nowadays had, unfortunately, been more physical than metaphysical. She still had time to practice her magic all the same however, in between city managing and translating for the officials. She was still the most literate across the three languages.

"You sing very nice. Your voice is better than Staff Sergeant Bannon's."

"That Ranger team leader?" It wasn't a hard precedent to beat.

"Yes."

"I used to be in a choir before…yeah."

"You miss those days so much that you sing to an audience of those out on the market?" Rory asked, ever prodding.

"You gotta flaunt what you got."

"Even your own religious beliefs?" Lumaban's face greyed. "I saw you with Wilbur trying to comfort Yao with this Jesus Christ. Of all the rules Colonel Pierce and Hazama had put down, that is one I agree with the most."

"It's in my nature. God saved me in that war you smell on me."

Rory had shook her head: that was always the case in the religious wars she had graced in her life. " _ **Don't get overzealous**_ , Perla. The beyond is already crowded as is. We don't need another god here. People will find their own in due time from who already claims this world."

Chuka had finally taken a bite of the fruit in her hands, and Perla had felt the fear of god in her heart as the refugees simply passed her on and went into the PX.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 46**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital – Akusho, The Devil's House**_

* * *

The Post Exchange programs of the JSDF and the US Military had been a great, great power and relief to the Special Task Force. Not only as an extension of modern society, and perhaps the most tangible to those of the Corridor and Italica, but as a general line of normalcy where the Japanese Yen or the US Dollar was still bartered with for items from online retailers and outlets on the otherside.

It was a good sign when some of the trash on the ground of the Corridors had been boxes from Amazon or the Japanese Post Service.

With Blackburn's experimental PX operating normally, it took less than a day for Masterson to place an order for the new Microsoft Zero-X Console and for one of the launch titles he had missed during Hitman's tenure in the Special Region.

This had been including the necessary wiring, outlets, and a TV.

* * *

 ** _Now Playing:_**

 ** _I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing – Aerosmith_**

 ** _As sung by Cameron Bonifaz Masterson_**

* * *

" _ **'Cause even when I dream of you, the sweetest dream would never do and I'd still miss you, baby. And I don't wanna miss a thing!"**_

Masterson screaming into the faux microphone as two of his squad had also followed along with their mock instruments had, to those outside of the main building of the block, been fortunately dulled and muted as he sung an old song blasting from the TV's speakers.

Those within the room hadn't been so lucky, Bannon typing on her laptop against her knees, back toward the wall as Emerson had written his own notes on his own data pad.

They had been far, far used to it by now. For RCT1 and the lizards, it was another story as they sat there and dozed in the break hours of the night.

 _ **"Don't wanna close my eyes, I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna miss a thing, I don't wanna miss a thing!"**_

As he finished off the lyrical begging he had actually dropped on the ground, rolling in some self-dramatic show of musical and artistical angst which he had no real grasp of. Being the son of lawyers tended to dissuade his opinion on art.

Art was many thing to many people. To Pina, Art was Yaoi. To Bannon, Art was a good meal. To Itami, Art was a new update to his favorite manga.

To him, Art was mostly trash.

Emerson cupping the bottom of his face in some sort of embarrassment hadn't been the only reaction in the room. "Oh Jesus Christ Cam, you really want me to enforce the loud music rule, of all fucking things?"

The man had slid off his VR headset, looking at his captain upside down from his position on the ground. "Huh?"

"…Nothing."

"Ah, I grew up playing Guitar Hero, Jay-Kay." he said, rather satisfied as Peters and Nutt had gotten off their stools and squat, their own VR headsets taken off as well. "You ever play any shooters? Call of Duty? Halo? How about you Lisa?"

Emerson shrugged as he put off a period on one of the report's lines. He found it hard to fully explain the emperor's eating habits in such a way that he couldn't laugh at himself for even explaining as such. "Call of Duty, yeah, first was Black Ops 2. Picked up a few titles here and there, but we usually didn't have enough money to pay for power to play videogames." he answered, remembering a childhood that seemed not too long ago, number wise.

Lisa had looked up from the documentary that was still being pieced together by her hand.

"My parents never really allowed me."

"Ah, come on, how can I, a runaway from home still have, a better experience playing videogames than you two?" he pondered aloud as Peters looked in ire at the plastic imitation of a guitar. To him it was a travesty.

"Maybe they had better priorities than you, Masterson." his deep voice had produced a frown on Masterson's face, but it had gone as fast as it came as he went spread eagle on the floor, looking up at that unfamiliar ceiling.

"It's fucking amazing, let me tell you. This is really familiar to me, in hindsight."

"What's really familiar?"

"Well, Kay, there was this videogame way, way back. Darkest of Days. It was complete ass, but basically this soldier plucked from General Custer's final stand, a good US Army soldier like us, by some extra-dimensional time travelling agency which uses people like him to go back in time and make things "right"."

"Mmm. Sounds awfully familiar in a way, hun." Jack Daniels had been on her tongue as Bannon did her drunk editing. A single bottle had been shared between her and her team, and it was enough for them to be more out of line than Emerson had been used to seeing her team.

How it got this far in had been a favor called in by Itami to RCT1.

As far as Hitman, and once upon a time: Bravo Company, went Bannon had run her squad very tightly in contrast to Masterson's more lax composition which had lended him to be able to play Guitar Hero in the middle of the capital with some of his quad.

Even Bannon had her days however.

"I fuckin' wish that I could play an instrument. Play on the street or some shit so I didn't need to just suc-" she rumbled.

Emerson had cut in, saving Bannon from history she never really was comfortable sharing with anyone other than Masterson. "Staff sergeant?"

"Uhrmhrm."

RCT1's leader had been dozing off lazily on a chair next to Emerson, writing out his own reports, looking between the three leaders of Hitman and how normal it seemed for them. During the early days of the invasion before Italica was host to Camp Kilgore, the Marines and the JSDF Combat Teams had pretty much bunked together, or, at least, lived in close enough proximity that the rare insight to the Marine Corp was held by the JSDF.

What a rather brutish, yet charming sight it was.

There had been such a time when the rowdiness of the Marines specifically had warranted the USFJ to put rather stringent curfews upon the US military on station in Japan. In fact the Marines had been part of the reason why Japan had wanted, in some notable minority, the US military off of Japanese soil.

There had always been calls for such moves; whenever a woman had been raped by an American, when a drunk soldier preformed a hit and run during one particularly bad night, robberies, vandalisms, all traced back to US military personnel.

The exceptions to the exceptionalism of the Americans in lands abroad however had not been heeded in the wake of such incidents, and if it hadn't been for a few Pacific region terrorist attacks by extremists from the Philippines and Malaysia with ties to the once unending war in the Middle East, America might've been booted out of Japan.

As a visage and a prediction of what the US Marines acted like, the JSDF had gone into the Special Region with them expecting just about that. What they got however, at least with Pierce's 7th MEU, of whom had been with the man ever since Korea, was that motivational pomp and professionalism shakily held over the precarious situation they were in.

Almost as if they _needed_ to be Marines as they were supposed to be, as they were in the past, and not the Marines they were today to stay sane.

All of this just to say that the Marines had all barked like devil dogs, fought like devil dogs, and partied in their off hours like devil dogs.

Hitman, to the rather civilized and groomed Second Lieutenant Kenzaki, was almost childish in a way, but neat and proper.

"What's the difference between you Army people and the Marines again? Can't quite put my finger on it." he deadpanned, looking up from his screen.

Masterson had been first to answer as he used his finger motions to wave off the videogame console. "Well, can you imagine us as Marines?"

Kenzaki looked around at who was present: a mix of both of Hitman's teams occupied with one thing or another, Loke and Harris attending and cleaning their weapons, Peters picking up his guitar as Khan snoozed at Bannon's feet, Nutt and Black collaborating over a notebook over something or another. "I don't really know."

"What? We got the Marines, the GSDF, and the Army, us. You Japanese, you're all so innocent generally. The way your soldiers walk with the locals, entertain them and provide them services, I swear if this was A-Stan or North Korea you'd be feeling a lot of hurt because of it. I mean, I admire that optimism but I think that just sums up this point here: You guys still gotta find out the right way to invade a people."

"We're not invading anyone."

"Oh, excuse my choice of words lieutenant, I mean integrating."

"And you Americans would know how better?"

"All I'm saying is that we've done before."

"Shut the fuck up Cam, stay on the original question."

"Fine, fine. The Marines are like America's pitbull, you dig? Deep down you know it's got the right intentions, that it might be some good little cute puppy despite what people think of it, but once you put it in the ring you forget all about that nice stuff and see it as how it's really used. You'll find a Marine used best not in population control or human relations with the locals, but tearing apart the scene when you get down to it. The Marines know who they are when they get deployed, it's just a matter of accepting it in their situation."

"Huh, alright, how about you Army?"

"What's the joke Kay? You gotta be a fuckin' mental retard to be a Marine?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, us Army are where the more normal folks go."

"You're telling us you're normal, Cam?" Emerson had chided.

"Shit, you as normal as the lizards right there." Peters had pointed at the two.

"Oh how you flatter us." Samnu responded, a claw fanning her head mockingly.

"Anyway, us Army? If the Marines are a warrior society, than we are a Roman one."

"Really now?"

"It ain't fair to say, but despite all of our advances, all of our drones and airpower and god rods, there is only one way to properly occupy territory: to do as the Roman legions did. That is what we are for. Marines go in during war, but us Army? We invade. There's a difference. We bring everything that we need to occupy and to conquer, and, for as long as we are there, the Army will let the people know what it means to be American." Masterson's tone had turned almost dark at the end of it, self-revealing.

"What Staff Sergeant Masterson means is that the Army is better equipped than the Marines for a long campaign."

"Sure."

"Especially us, we're kind of pampered anyway given our… credentials… don't know if that covers sixty fuckin' prescriptions for birth control from Kurokawa and you Doc."

The man had been lounging on a couch. Kurokawa had been on duty at the makeshift medical office downstairs. It had been a long day and Mizari's good word on the street seemed to make the office and the PX explode in activity.

Blackburn had been downstairs in the tunnel system with Tetsuo bunking with his Seabees on his piles and piles of denarii. "When I get out I'll be a fuckin' shop owner here! That's what I'll do!" had been his words as he hauled his cart of profit that day.

Profits hadn't been the name of the game with the PXs in the Special Region, but it happened.

"Look Kay, I've been looking over Chuka for a month, and if I didn't do at least one good deed to make up for it I guarantee I'll be meeting Rory in the afterlife one of these days."

"All things considered Doc, I don't think Rory would be bad company." Peters pointed out.

"Eh."

Fingers on keys, tapping away at a report, Peters playing with the plastic guitar, a comfortable silence even as Bannon breathed through her mouth, the rumble of her throat making it known she wanted to say something.

"Ever imagine what it would be like to a Marine? MARSOC?" Bannon had asked as her fingertips lost themselves in Khan's fur.

The captain zoned out, eyes furrowed, looking at the floor as his right hand curled around a grip that was not there.

"Kay?"

Emerson had come out of his momentary trance, nodding, his thumb grazing over the chain of his dog tags before letting some air out of his green undershirt. "Maybe in another world. I like being Army. Nice and simple."

Masterson had raised his eyebrow at the captain, however he hadn't said anything of it as Kenzaki spoke. "That dog special?" the JSDF lieutenant pointed at Khan.

Bannon had simply guided the dog's rather giant head onto her legs as she had ran her fingers along the bottom of his head, rubbing it as her impaired senses made her hazy and quiet.

Emerson had answered for him as he closed his laptop. "He's been with us ever since we were just a regular Ranger company. Three years old I think, US Military breeders did their usual schtick with them."

Kenzaki raised one of his thick eyebrows. "Usual schtick?"

"I know you probably won't notice, but Khan's a genetically engineered monster of nature. Muscle mass doubled, sense of sight and smell just amplified so much we had to get the him off of Doc when he was just introduced to the man."

"Why?"

"Doc had cancer."

"Guilty as charged." he proclaimed as he tried to sleep, patting his bald head.

"Khan's sense of smell is mutated so much he can smell a man who's been technically cancer free for a few years."

"Wow."

"Yep. He can also rip your throat out pretty easily, his teeth are the size of some fingers."

"Ain't the mutt technically the only one of us who ain't killed someone yet?" Masterson had rumbled as he got comfy on the floor.

"To my knowledge, yes."

Seyton and Samnu had been couriously looking on from front of the room, their backs against the wall as their tails intertwined. It was quite a scene, to see these supposed banes of the Empire in lax like this, let alone the Father of Sin.

"In thisssss plaaccee mosssst have a kill to their name." Seyton and Samnu had been of a rather young age for their species, but they had seen enough for their lifetimes. Done enough. "Even the animalssss are not ssspared."

"Well, out there, my dear lizard friends," Masterson pointed up and out. "Is a place where we have soldiers to kill in your name."

"Mussst be niccceee." they said in unison. "Hasn't stopped us."

"Ufufuffu." Bannon's giggling had made her slump over onto Khan, the dog barely noticing. "I like the whole two voice thing they do."

The lizards wanted to respond, however what had left their mouths had been yelps and screams instead.

The sound of arrowheads on stone had sprung most of Hitman and the RCTs to full readiness, Hitman in particular remembering the volley of arrows that had hit them during Italica.

RCT3 had been on deck at the PX that night.

Seyton and Samnu had known the MO as they beat back the urge to go hide under something.

"The Besssssera Family." Samnu had said simply, her Ss still elongated. RCT1 and Hitman had taken a while to get used to the sound.

Masterson chambered a round in Emerson's M16A2 before he tossed it to him, the weapons all laying up against the walls immediately picked up.

"RCT1. Fan out to the surrounding buildings, get rooftop clearance set up. Open fire when we do."

The 2nd lieutenant had nodded as RCT1 had taken off fast to the pathways connecting this building to the next, weapons locked and loaded as Hitman got ready.

"Squad One, second floor. Squad two, go give 'em a welcome party downstairs. We'll open up on your go." Emerson had ordered calmly, stacking up against the closed windows with the rest of the squad, burning tar from the flaming arrows evident as they checked their suppressors' tightness on their barrel threads. No need to make that much noise, they had all reasoned.

Not that Masterson listened as he had spun the cylinders in his Peacemakers before getting his 870 a good pump.

"It's never good to have so much blood spilled on one street you know. City tends to condemn the neighborhood." Bannon had remarked as she had levied her M4 against the ledge, waiting to poke her rifle out. There was a little stumble, a little sway, but she had learned how to fight drunk before the military.

"This entire damned district is condemned, ma'am."

Bannon rolled her one eye, the eyepatch clinging to her head over the still out of action one. "Point taken Doc."

Masterson's hand signals had followed a finger going to his lips, the squad rushing to every window and opening that had been boarded up, just waiting for the commencement of hostilities.

Loke had opened up her window just a slit, enough to see some beast walk slowly toward the front door with a hammer, about to bash in, she waving one finger down and pushing her fist in the air toward her sergeant.

The man had simply slid his balaclava down and put on his combat goggles as he had pranced to the door, 870 out as he had kicked the door out himself, the beast on the other side in mid swing, thrown off.

It didn't take much for Masterson to raise his 870 to the four armed beast's neck, and it wasn't much time at all for the beast to register that he had drawn the short straw as he saw that faceless character stand before him, and blow away his breath.

In shreds, chunks, pieces of bone, that beast had lost its head as the street behind him had been splattered in red as the windows were thrown open on all floors, and the Father of Sin had yelled out into the night, the beast's jaw hitting the floor after tearing itself from the last remaining portions of the head.

" _ **Hammer 'em!**_ "

The roar of gunfire had come forward before Masterson's cycled buck had hit the floor, the man taking one of the shells in between his left hand and putting it in the chamber directly before slamming the pump back, the recoil carrying his aim upward toward the tracer highlighted roofs of Akusho.

The man had been a cut above most of his fellow Rangers in aim, his upbringings, his hobbies, his natural prowess with the guns that defined his state and what that state had meant to a growing America, it had made his shots true. True enough that even at a few dozen feet away he had taken the head off an archer as he scrambled to reload another bolt into his crossbow, between Squad One and RCT1 prowling the rooftops, top cover had been provided as he racked the shotgun back again and went regulation with his M4.

It wasn't anything Hitman or the JSDF wasn't used to at that point, lines of white, yellow, red and green cutting across the street and disemboweling, tearing hearts, and killing common thugs and criminals like sand against the wind: being torn into red mist, blown back and sent to the street in maddening thuds that broke bones that did not belong to functioning bodies anymore.

The archer that Masterson's shotgun had peppered, his head swissed and a mush in what confines left it had, had hit the ground head first by the time Masterson had yelled out for his pointmen to stack on him and clear the street.

Loke had burst through the window in a vault, two others coming forward through the door in a less dramatic fashion as Harris's M60 up top had chugged along the windows opposite of the hideout, the construction of it faltering underneath the pig like sound of the machine gun, anyone behind it churned and victim to the fatality of seven six two ammunition meant to tear up modern grade metal and flesh in spades.

There wasn't any real poetry, dramatics, to this sort of engagement. No poetry to Emerson drilling holes into bandits with his M16 or Bannon simply mowing down retreating rows down alleys from her vantage point with her M4. It was hardly an artistic affair as a JSDF sniper and Black tried to compete for kills as Archers found no cover on those rooftops, their skulls adding chips to broken tiles, bodies sliding off and into the street to sheared appendages and bleeding gasps for air as their desperation to live, to get rid of the pain, was not enough.

Sparks had even flew as bullets hit steel armor, the four men and women out front from Masterson's squad fanning out, their backs to each other, and mowing down those who dared stand and vandalize their property.

Even those who ran away.

Not that Loke had, even with her training. She had seen Harris's MG follow a man as he ducked behind a pillar and then into a door leading away from the killzone, she, as clear as a shot she had, not taking it as she had instead look down to the ground and saw the crawling form of some unfortunate soul, blaming her for their death.

She had put two down in that form's general direction in the dark before raising her rifle again, a series of bursts from her, the muzzleflash blinding her, clearing her section of the street in front of the hideout as the burping of machine gun fire and the punches of sniper shots subsided: leaving only gurgles and groans of the dead and the close behind.

A few of RCT1 had rushed down stairs and added to the force projection on the street, the sound of empty mags being dropped and new ones being slammed in above it all.

"Rooftop how we looking?!" Emerson had yelled as he had ran downstairs to the street as well, brass being kicked into a corner for later.

" _ **Clear!**_ "

"Cam?!"

The man had stayed silent as he had peered down the optics of his M4, the sling of it thrown off his shoulder as he held it out more, flicking its flashlight on and walking toward a crowd of bodies, all punctured and compromised in some way shape or form.

He leaned in as his hand had flattened and pointed in three directions. Two generally behind him, one in front.

His pointmen fanned out as he poked closer at that pile of bodies, still very much bleeding and gasping in some indistinct mass.

And that indistinct mass had made reached and hand out of the closest foot to it, and as Masterson yelped and recoiled back, he dragged whoever that arm had belonged to out: that arm that of a frog with pads and of the like. Those pads had stuck onto his boots as the beast was freed, and reached out its other freed arm, bloodily soaked, toward Masterson.

After the initial shock the man had only done as he was trained, kicking forward with his ensnared leg into the frog's head, beating the beast back into the pile on its back and giving Masterson time enough to use his other leg to jump on it, knee digging into its neck.

Gills as it had, it wasn't until Masterson had thrown his M4 into the street and instead drew his more maneuverable Peacemaker into the green mass of a head was it finally choked out and killed: the body sinking into the mass as Masterson slowly, slowly backed off and picked up the rifle.

Blood had been soaking into the fabric of the balaclava, but he kept it on, wiping a smear over his goggles before splashing some water from his hydration pack.

"Cl-clear!" he finally sounded off.

And one by one the shots that followed had been that of mercy killing.

"You know," Masterson had breathed through his mask as Emerson looked over the four armed beast he blew the head off of. "I don't think this is what my parents thought of when they said they wanted me to help "clean the streets of criminals"."

Emerson nodded thoughtfully as he kicked the piece of skull that had been this beasts jaw aside. "Maybe this actually is what they meant Cam."

Masterson went to the side of the building, snapping off one of the arrows fired. "Your snakes, they mentioned they knew who did this?"

"Seyton! Samnu!" the two snakes had poked their head out of a window at Emerson's becking.

"Yessss?" they both said in sync.

"You got a read on where this Bessera Family hangs their cape?"

"We can point you in the right direction. Can't misssss it."

Second Lieutenant Kenzaki had also poked his head out from the roof, his form silhouetted against the night, his battle rifle smoking. He had been the rather rambunctious lead of RCT1, and he had showed it with a dare in his eye. "You thinking what I'm thinking captain?" he spoke to Emerson below.

The man shook his head. "No, lieutenant. What are you thinking?"

"We make an explosive statement?"

"No. As Sergeant Bannon tells me, property here is expensive, and I think we have an opportunity for some hostile takeover… Make some room here for you and RCT3."

"Whatever you say, Captain Emerson." he shook his head disappointed, disappearing back into the building as he reported to the major onsite.

"Cam!"

"Yes sir?" The tone of order, of command and being soldiers. Masterson never forgot who he was now, despite all the fluff of his charisma, he tossing his cowboy hat his captain's way as he bucked up.

He had caught it and, with little place else to put it, donned it himself. "Take squad two and whoever else you need with Seyton and Samnu. S&D the Bessera Family. Head of the Family is a HVT designate as "The Italian", preferred if you take him alive. I'll be monitoring the situation from here. I'll have our drone operator wire you intel as it comes in. Copy all?"

"2-1 Actual copies all. Squad two, oscar mike ASAP. Peters, Harris, Loke with me now! _**Let's hustle**_!"

Eleven men and women, Masterson added on making twelve, Harris, Loke, and Peters borrowed from Bannon for the moment. That had been the make up of Hitman's Squad Two, Doc, Loke, Harris, and Nutt among them. They had been in the second squad by Emerson's organization just by the fact that all that had been in there had melded well enough with Masterson that they were the fast hitters, the one-two sucker punch of Hitman in theory while the first squad was the backbone.

Technically every Ranger there had been capable of operating at the same level, but on a personal level was another matter, and Emerson had been wise enough to see this as he had taken the flavor guns away from Masterson and instead handed him back his actual duty weapons with little protest, squad two filing out the door one by one in full kit and gear, sans the muscle suits, helmets and optics on as they hugged the wall of the estate, Seyton and Samnu sliding down the sides to meet them. Peters and Khan had come down the regular way, the man joining the group with the eager dog in tow in his wake.

"Hail Seyton." Masterson had chided as he shook the beasts hand, Seyton moving his eyes as if he had eyebrows to raise. The beast didn't quite understand, but Masterson couldn't blame him.

"You mistake me for royalty." he responded, tongue flicking.

"You two sure look it." the man had smiled before putting goggles back on with his balaclava. "We green?!" he yelled out.

Harris had shut the door behind him and flicked his big thumb up, shouldering his M60 like it was nothing.

"You good Doc?" Masterson asked out again, the man's Mk16 loaded after a little fumbling.

"I don't even want to understand how the damned Marines deal with these logistics…. Rifle's twenty years old!"

Loke had shook her combat medic's shoulder playfully, her own M4A1 three decades in at that point. "Look on the bright side Doc, if it's not broke, why replace it?"

The man sniffled as he had put on his own armored face mask. "Oh yeah? I'll be sure to tell that to the next amputee with a prosthetic that's a decade out of date who can't even put on their own gitch."

"Positive thinking. Positive thinking my man." Nutt had stood up from his crouch, Masterson raising his hand, shoulders shifting at the two lizards, the beasts taking off down the emptied, bloody streets into the dark.

The Rangers followed.

Or, in proper military motivational terms as Itami had been long accustomed to as he had leaned his head out of a window and saw them go off, Rangers led the way.

* * *

Suppressors had been on all the barrels of their guns minus the one LMG, the M60 Harris wielded going to be held in one arm as the other waved another Mk16, a derivative of the SCAR assault rifle.

Blackburn had been squeezing in very slowly modern spec weapons for the gimped Americans. The Japanese had no issue bringing in their bullpup shotguns or newer designed Heckler and Koch SMGs for the RCTs. Nor did they have any hindrances of producing, on the spot, a TUSK like system for their older tanks for urban warfare if it ever came down to it.

However the Americans had to fight tooth and nail, at least on paper, in bringing over what the US military could fully offer. The balance of power had still been grossly in the favor of the Japanese in terms of manpower, however any company sized force of current spec Marine infantry would undermine that unspoken of balance almost immediately.

The seamless cohesion of battlefield communication and new materials grafted onto combat armor and equipment, unmanned vehicles feeding entire divisions crucial intelligence and, occasionally, fighting the wars themselves. The first use of tactically sound laser technology had been displayed by America during Operation Open Wind, the Iranian anti-ship missiles and ordnance all shot down in what was commonly referred to as the deadliest disco dance in modern history (the 1986 Berlin discotheque bombing withstanding).

Muscle and exo suits developed and procured by SOCOM had made the Deltas and the SEALs infiltrating Tehran able to gut the city from the inside out over a prolonged period: holding out for a staggering one and a half weeks in constant combat while the main force made the slow push from Turkey down Freeway 2. One such instance a SEAL having his suit save him as he had been blasted off of one of Tehran's buildings.

All these had been reasons why the JSDF did not appreciate America uparming itself in a region where such drastic armaments had equaled overkill. As reasonable as that was, America's military had known better than to handicap itself, regardless of the foe. Not after all this time.

Perhaps the most relevant topic in regards to the issue of America's logistic issue in the Special Region had been the tanks.

The replacement of the American M1A1s with the M1A5s would make the Warlords literally their namesake, the A5 designed in wartime against the warfare America had long since been relegated to, and not the war that the original design had been made for.

That had equaled point defense systems able to defeat something as small as a rock, to an ATGM with little taken away from the tank's combat effectiveness, as well as crystal clear optics and cutting edge technical systems that made each unit a rolling, lethal, supercomputer on some measure, able to control the ammunition itself as it was shot out of the barrel among other things, the tank itself running lighter, and more efficiently, than any military commander could hope for.

America had 5,000 or so M1A5s.

None had made it to the Special Region.

Yet.

Whatever the case, the argument over gear had been purely a modern one, and it had made no difference what measure of gun was being used to shoot at the Bessara family's guards in the silent whisps of the suppressed weapons.

Seyton and Samnu had charged alongside the Rangers as they had rushed the front gate, Loke and another point man up front as three standing thugs in quasi Roman armor had crumpled to the ground: gunshot wounds square in their heads as those who did the deed stood above them and took a knee.

Nutt had rushed up behind Loke, going to the wooden gate that had been locked with a chain. The frontal approach had been the fastest, and time was what they needed: the simplest solution the one they always preferred.

He pulled on the chain hard once as further whisps had cut through the air, the Rangers cutting down those who had suspected something along the walls of the estate. The Bessara family had lived in some of an imitation of Sadera Hill. Despite the filth of Akusho around them, a sizable circular property complete with green grass and a rather sizable manor had exited for the family inside of it.

"Locked. Heavy chain. Explosive?" Nutt had said fast, the gate having come in line with a guard tower. Masterson had been there to answer as he had rolled his fist around in the air and pointed up toward the walls, the Rangers getting grappling hooks ready.

"Up and over. Save the charges."

"Hitman Actual. 2-1 Actual, you there?" Emerson's voice had rang into Masterson's ear as he saw Seyton and Samnu scale the walls without any equipment, the Rangers throwing their hooks and lines over and starting to scale immediately.

"2-1 Actual. Go ahead Kay."

"I have one MAV overhead now. Will feed you information as they come in. Currently we got a read of fifty plus foot mobiles patrolling the grounds. How copy?" the slight buzzing of the jetpack like UAV had hovered over the estate. Only the trained ears of the Rangers had understood it had been that instead of the flickering of a fire.

"2-1 Actual copies all." he grunted, throwing his own line over as Loke once again had taken point over the wall: the sound of a guard getting punched out and thrown the way she had came up punctuated by the breaking of bone.

By that time Harris had hauled his huge body up and over, slapping down the bipod on his M60 and pointing it out toward the grounds, those with marksman rifles and the lone sniper having gone prone along the stone.

The fire was held as the rest of the team had gotten up and over.

The suppressors weren't outright quiet, their purpose to being on for that particular engagement being to hide the firing signature of the guns as opposed to outright dampen the sound. Attention had been drawn, and once again, Hitman had been faced with a slowly rising horde of foot mobiles.

Thugs, villains, cronies that made the worst kind of living.

All things considered, as Masterson had argued with himself in that second between ascertaining the situation across the lawn from the wall, he didn't mind killing these people.

"Wilkes! Omar! Take a fireteam and circle these walls! Everyone else put lead on down there now!" Masterson's pointed into the vague ill-lit yard had been enough for those who hadn't been called out to start opening fire.

It was all too familiar to Italica they had thought as they held down the triggers at the vague silhouettes on the lawn, rushing toward them.

Needless to say by that time Hitman had perfected crowd management from elevated positions.

The marksmen and the auto gunners had their field day as they had covered the rest of squad two, Masterson taking the lead as he had lead them down the stairs lining the inside lining of the defensive wall, one or two guards that had tried to run up to see what was the ruckus about promptly dropped from two shots from Masterson's rifle, he shoving the bodies out their way even as they crumpled to the ground.

" _Say again, the Italian takes top priority Hitman. Out._ "

One of the good things about Roman lawncare was that it often left little built up besides the occasional hedge or bush lining, which was hardly any cover to the thugs as they had tried to duck behind the greenery, only for their specks of bloodspatter to combine with the ruffle of the plants.

No meaningful resistance given, or could be given.

To the Rangers it didn't matter if these were Imperial thugs, North Korean hold outs, or a Middle Eastern insurgent. There was no quarter given even in the opening acts of the impromptu operation, just as intended.

No chance given or allowed. This was the aspect of modern warfare the special ops teams excelled at and it was as Emerson had taught Pina, an unfair fight was the best sort of fight.

"Five meter spread, go!"

Suppressors had been smoking already as the fire had gone out, men falling forward and into the dirt, their last sight that of tracers in the darkness cutting through them like shooting stars. Hardly a yell, a scream.

Being shot never caused the screaming until a few seconds later, but by that time many of the victims were dead.

" _Thirteen plus KIA_." Emerson reported over the radio. The UAV's software had tagged the footmobiles and kept count at they appeared.

Half second bursts per person. That is what Harris had dictated as he laid belly flat on the wall, looking down once again on the Empire as the team slowly crept through the lawn, the occasional hard punch of one of the DMRs making short work of the further away targets.

In truth, only one or two bullets had been really needed with the weight of the M60's ammunition, but the pull a trigger and the coordination of fire was not dependent on the enemy.

Doc had put three rounds down as one of the guards had tried to play possum, the man's lurching up as the line of Rangers cut across the lawn not appreciated as Doc snapped his sights down and squeezed off a burst across his chest and throat. The fourth round had made the man's face concave, and that had been for reassurance.

He dragged the tips of his boots across the ground to get rid of the dark color as he looked up just in time for a boulder to be dodged, the man shrieking and diving right.

" _Be advised. Have eyes on one T-Specimen. Over._ "

That boulder had simply turned out to be a clump of the lawn scooped up by the giant troll's massive hand. The composition had made it explode muddily in the faces of three of the Rangers, they collapsing to the ground as fire was reconcentrated on the troll that had come from behind the house.

The Special Task Force, or, at least, Emerson had been around the Region long enough for gunfire's dangers to be evident to some. This had made the six or so meter tall beast with the wide form of Harris times five drapes its log like arms over its face as gunfire picked at its flesh with little effect.

Between the burps and the cracks of the supporting fire from back on the wall, for once, there had been an enemy unable to falter under gunfire, the skin of the troll taking it all with little trouble as it continued to walk forward and break the Ranger line, several of the guards stacking behind the beasts form.

Masterson stood front and center, opposite of the beast, rifle up as his palm flattened and pointed at the grey mass, illuminated only by the night vision goggles.

" _ **Loke, Nutt, on me**_ we're taking this thing out! Everyone else push forward and secure that building, _**move**_!" Masterson had yelled, his fist up and out and making a piston motion toward the beast as he had remembered how these things were taken down at Ginza by him and Emerson.

The Rangers had dashed forward, isolating the beast behind the frontline with those that had taken cover behind it, the audible heavy breathing it had barely changed as sparks of gunfire bounced off of its skin like firecrackers.

"Nutt! Forty mike mike, now!"

The man had taken a knee beside his sergeant, Loke putting fire onto the beasts to draw its attention away from the forward line of Rangers, even the hog that was Harris's M60 not doing much to the skin but scuff it.

The cylindrical object had been slammed into the 203 mounted beneath the man's M4, the leaf sights flipped up as, at that range, hadn't left much guess work.

The grenade had flown after the bloop, but the size of the beast was not indicative of its capability, reaching out and closing its fist around the object with nothing but a pop signifying it had gone off.

Yellow eyes had looked at the three annoyed between fingers that had covered its head from fire like a boxer.

The fight had continued on beyond them, but for all intents and purposes, the world for the three Rangers had honed down to just them and the troll.

"Well, _**shit**_." Masterson laxxed his form as the two sides stood several good paces away from each other, casually reloading his rifle as Loke and Nutt furrowed their eyebrows on either side of him. "Ever think Kay had to square off against any of these on his own?"

There was always an air of frankness that had surrounded the cowboy Ranger: if any situation had been blown out of proportion he had been quick to reel himself back in before he had been caught in it. This was one of those situations, faced with an enemy they couldn't exactly shoot to death with the weapons they had on hand save getting suicidal with the shotgun.

Masterson pumped his shotgun once after thumbing in a few shells.

"What's the takedown on this thing again? Aim for the joints, whittle it down?" Loke recalled some of the JSDF's training done on this side of the Gate.

"Like a videogame, seriously?" Nutt had asked, somewhat flabbergasted, the three Rangers remembering where they were as the first hurried footsteps toward them had made them grip onto their rifles again in full seriousness.

"Tal', Don', go left, I'll go right. See what happens." Masterson had stated as he had flicked the pin on his flashbang and held the spoon from releasing. They had both nodded as one of the orc's hands had started to run against the ground, building up another projectile. There was no acknowledgement to the plan, but they had rolled with it as they orbited left, Masterson staying put and playing, for the fourth or so time in his life, the role of rodeo clown.

The thug's concept of moving cover had backfired on them as the Rangers moved to their left flank, a hail of gunfire from them cutting into their heads and shoulders, chipping away steel and bone as they fell with little drama, hitting the lawn and joining the many bodies that had fallen on it in those last handful of minutes.

* * *

The Rangers unoccupied with the beast had been slowly making their bloody way through the front lawn to the estate, cutting a swath through men and hedges to the sound of three shot bursts: two center mass topped off by a hit to the head.

It was with the ever increasing threat of sharing their fate that the head Bessara had tried to scoot off and dash through the front door. The sniper had a shot on the Italian because of that, and he took it, but he missed. "Eyes on HVT."

The missed shot had spooked the man enough that he had ducked back inside the house, locking the door behind him as the lights went out from the windows.

One of the many lessons of the Rangers was to never stop an enemy from making a mistake, hence the complication that the sniper had created had caused him to wince.

The mark of his mistake: a simple bullet impact against brick, had been covered up as one of the Rangers had covered it with his body, the seven or so Rangers stacking up against the door.

Pointman had yanked on the door handle, no give present. He tapped the top of his helmet twice as another Ranger got on his knees in front of the door, a square block with a lanyard tightened over the handle as they pressed themselves closer to the wall, anticipating what was to come.

The burst, the concussive kickback, the crack of lightning and the sound of thunder had come and made the door disappear in splinters as another cylindrical object was rolled in. A blinding flash of light was the last thing any of those on the other end, awaiting the door to be breached, had comprehended as the Rangers piled in through the door.

Those who hadn't been weak, falling to the floor in blinding pain, had been subject to a better treatment than those who flailed around with their swords or blades wildly in the air, the prompt sound of one or two well placed shots silencing the entry way as the Rangers' night vision goggles were slapped on in the pitch black, their surroundings fully analyzed.

Zip ties had come out and wrapped up the survivors by feet and hands after they had either been knocked out senseless or subdued.

The ranking fireteam leader had opened his hands in the air flat and up, no words to be spoken.

Fist had raised up from his chest straight before popping open to two fingers and made large horizontal circles over his head and pointed, all fingers flat, into the darkness.

Bayonets had been affixed as pairs of Rangers had gone off, dispersed to do their job. That had been one of the better things about the older weapons they were assigned: they still had bayonet lugs.

Sounds could be heard coming from the house as the first breaches into the many rooms were had, but they were not noises in the traditional sense. The pops of flashbangs, the whisps of suppressed gunfire, the occasional yell in the Lingua Franca cursing death or telling people to get down, but it was intentionally subdued.

Quiet, almost.

War to them tended to be, when it went right. The philosophy of the American Special Forces had been that of silent, dirty wars altogether, and as each door was kicked down and cleared, another man dead who tried to resist while the Italian was being hunted down in his own home, it felt right to the Rangers.

It felt almost as if they weren't in the Special Region, but rather Basra, or Kandahar; destroying an empire of dirt.

 _It felt right._

It was horrible to the defenders that had retreated inside of their bedrooms, the kitchens and the storehouses of their terrible trade inside that estate, for the heaviest locks, the biggest blocks, to be shoved against the doors only to be barged down so easily.

Some locks were shot out, the other were simply kicked, blown up by door charges, entire frames heaving as the boots of the Rangers came up, pounded in, and retreated behind the wall as the pointmen pushed through after a blinding flash of light and concussion.

It confused the criminals why these Rangers, these foreigners did not come in with swords or blades befit the fear that they inspired in Akusho, but they did not need blades, not even the ones that topped the black contraptions they held.

They never heard the bullets that killed them. Not even the muzzle flashes, courtesy of the suppressors. What they did see were the black figures come into the room so smoothly, their resistance meaningless as by muscle memory they tried to draw and charge.

As soon as they had burst through, as those choking on their own blood had seen as they gasped in agony, not given the courtesy of a warrior's death in their mind, the men in black had left them to their fates and repeated the process in the next room over.

Again and again and again.

Some of them had encountered Khan, the first to go through the door in his breachings with Peters. How fast he had ran in, how unexpected a foe he was to the criminals. None had expected their death to come by the teeth of the dog, their throats bit into, torn up, pulled out, as they were made example.

* * *

In the middle of night with the haze of combat glossing their senses, it was a miracle that the Three Rangers were able to draw bead on the joints of the beast at all. Shooting on the move had been a well-practiced maneuver, the smooth movement of the legs, the leveling of the shoulders as the body was always oriented toward the target.

The closer they got the faster they realized that it was bleeding. In the words of another, albeit fictional, operator: If it bleeds, you can kill it.

Another clump of dirt was thrown Loke and Nutt's way, both diving forward to avoid it, only to be in front of the troll and its curled massive fists.

" _ **Shit!**_ "

Both scrambled in opposite directions, a burst from the M60 shooting up the shoulder of the beast to little more than just sound effects of squishing and impacts.

The hand had come down and the earth shook the two soldiers, going on their backs, a clean shot at the knees. The caps always bled fast in human physiology, but the beast, upon the first few bursts of rounds cracking into its skin, had stood on its knees instead to cover itself, the thight taking the rest of the bullets as the mags of both Loke and Nutt ran dry.

"Back back back back!"

Masterson sprinted at the beast's behind, but he had been met halfway by the thrown body of a dead criminal, smacking him off his feet.

Another chug from the M60, another spray of suppressive fire from the hog that it was was drawn off by the troll raising its forearm in front of its face, hard skin deflecting rounds with sparks.

It growled out once in the direction of the shooters, the snipers and the autogunners, and in another clump of dirt it had returned fire.

" _ **Move!**_ " The M60s bipod dragged as Harris had pretty much tackled all the men on his right further down, the brown clump of dirt somehow compacted enough to take a piece off the battlements.

Masterson had been able to get back up, even after the impact. He'd been hit by worst, most namely a bull's hoof. He racked his shotgun back once as Loke had dumped her mag and reloaded, the distinctive sound making the beast turn back to the sergeant.

The pump hadn't been completed, the chamber open after letting loose an unspent shell as Masterson thumbed in a yellow replacement. "On the floor, now!" he yelled, not to the beast, but the two soldiers on the opposite end. They had dropped immediately as the beast sprang its leg back in preparation to leap toward Masterson.

The shotgun boomed and it sent blades out from its barrel.

Flechette rounds, hand loaded, pieces of broken knives and daggers that had been brought back from Italica's killing fields and the Boneyard.

They were not meant to kill, they were meant to hurt as they sliced through the beast's skin like a hot scalpel.

The rounds went above the two other Rangers, getting back up on their knees and aiming at the joints as they knew, blood now drawn. Like little stings of the nerve, the beast's movement had locked up.

Shino had been rubbing off on some of the younger Rangers, the less disciplined, Loke had been one of them, charging toward the stunned beast. The beast had seen it coming.

She had dashed underneath the swing to the other side of the beast, her rifle up as she slid onto her back, emptying her magazine into the shoulder of the beast as its attention was turned towards her.

Masterson had dashed as the shoulder was turned into a bloody shred, the beasts back nearly jumped on as he drew his shotgun.

The first pump had been precautionary, making sure there had been on a shell chambered as he held it across him, a unused red round flying out and hitting Nutt, the man unphased as he joined his squad lead with his M4.

The first shot from the 870 had poked into the back of the beast's right knee and leg, the barrel contacting flesh as it had rang out, the hard skin trapping the buckshot in the bone as it scrambled the beasts kneecap from the inside out.

He pumped again as he got the backsplatter, shifting the gun over a foot to the left and repeating the same boom into the back of the beast's left knee.

The great groaning it had was hidden under the constant gunfire still erupting out towards the other guards, the giant orc's grey form collapsing onto those shattered knees in a horrible squelch had made a silence ring out however.

The pump racked out as Masterson's raised it up, barrel still touching and burning the flesh, taking out a chunk of the beast's side next to its gut.

Nutt had taken his knife and stuck it into the arm Loke had been shooting, she running dry as she had twirled herself, drawing her pistol and taking down a pair of guards who had meant to jump on her before turning back around and joining Nutt.

The man had glided down from the mulched flesh of the beast's shoulder, both hands going against skin that had been like alligator skin in toughness, though the slashing had simply been an addition to Loke coming down on that shot up shoulder and finding the bone on her heel, somehow, in her hidden tenacity as a soldier, dislocating and dismembering the arm as a series of quick pumps to the other arm by Masterson had done the same. The arm didn't give however on Masterson's side of things, he having stood on the beast's ankles as its torso had touched the ground, wreathing in agony.

Only when Masterson had gotten his M4 up and started a line of automatic fire across the beast's socket did the arm finally go, the man getting off and kicking the beast over, taking its ponytail as Nutt and Loke secured his forward.

The sniper finally had the shot, and he had taken it.

Masterson didn't have much to hold onto as his Rangers pushed past him, a kill finally made as there was a slight tug and a loss of weight in his hand as the shot came and went, dropping whatever was left as he avoided looking at it.

He reloaded his shotgun fast, but not before lifting his balaclava over his mouth and spitting at the grey corpse, taking off toward the building as Harris and the snipers took out the standing survivors in the lawn.

* * *

" _Forty plus KIA_."

"Yo, Brian, listen for a second."

Harris had been a one man autogunner team, his left hand holding the chain of M60 ammunition as his right hand held down the trigger, putting it down at the figures below until the garden had been cleared more or less.

No use firing at air, even as bodies and soon to be corpses writhed and bled below.

Harris had flipped open the lid in the lull, barely hearing the sniper next to him ask for his attention. "What?"

"Listen for the metal clatter."

"The hell you talking about?" reloading was as much as an art as any play in football, and such Harris had been liable to zone out while doing such maneuvers. He had been hardwired to think of everything he had done since his college ball days with such focus, the man yanking back the bolt on the M60 to finally load it as his mind finally understood what the sniper was saying.

The clang of fallen steel that rung from the house had been a better indicator of kills than the UAV above could count, given the covering of the indoors.

The sniper had been counting sure enough, his fingers opening and closing every hit. Needless to say the body count would've been pretty high, even for a raid. Then again they were getting rid of a rather big criminal element in Akusho. Not that Harris had outright cared. Right now he was told to provide over watch as the sniper and marksmen joined him.

A sound from the ground, the groans of a lone figure rise from the ground like a zombie, fingers trying to hold in his guts as he hobbled toward the only light he could see: that being the torches of the estate.

The sniper rose his M40 rifle, but Harris had pressed down on his knee and shook his head.

"Don't waste a bullet. He's a dead man walking."

Loke on her way to the building's front had done the finishing work with a knife anyway.

* * *

"Je-zus, Nutt's gonna have a fucking field day Tony." three of the Rangers had breached a rather large door with a charge. They hadn't expected those doors to go further down the stairs into a holding space that had seemed to be a converted dungeon. A problem had also arisen in the fact the hallway they wandered into along the basement had been uniform, and that there had been many of the same doors with varied stenches emanating from them.

Balls and ball of vaguely green and brownish substances had been stacked upon crates and crates and baskets

It was no secret that Nutt had been a habitual drug user back in his civilians day (nor had it been any secret General Andrade had been an OG Crip), but he had been a rational man enough that he had cooled it nowadays. However with that Hitman had been imbued with his knowledge as he had been practicing his teaching skills with whatever subjects he could dig up.

"Opium as far as the eye can see." one of the Rangers had taken out his Zippo before another had slapped it closed.

"Hey, remember the SOP, no destroying people's livelihoods…."

"Come on Tony."

"That and if you light this stash we'll be tripping balls for the next week with the fumes we'll kick up."

"Point taken."

Another breach on the level, the clattering of doors falling down stairs. A momentary stunned silence as the three Rangers moved away from the stash.

"Aw shit. Tone, Babs, Mia, get eyes on."

The cameras had still been on the Rangers, and they had seen everything still. The witness of a war fought that needed to be seen one day.

They had seen everything as they put their flashlights on their guns through the door and saw where the Bessara family made people disappear.

* * *

Masterson's own knowledge of the hand to hand arts wasn't to be understated as he ducked beneath the slice, anticipating people to have gone through the door, the sword getting stuck in the archway as the man behind him had ducked back.

His fist had found the man's gut as he had sprung back up and seized the stuck sword backhanded, what he had meant to only slice at the man's throat instead having it lodge into his chest: he falling to the ground as the full weight of what had been done to him had hit him, frothed to his mouth, and kept his eyes wide as Masterson had simply regripped his rifle and cleared the room as the rest of the squad rushed in, the man bleeding before him the only one who had given him much resistance.

What little resistance the man had offered against death was cut off as Masterson promptly stomped the stuck sword all the way through, not even realizing he had just severed the man from the chest up.

Not that he had looked, his priorities and tactics straight as he looked over the room fast, ignoring the other breachings going on throughout.

The estate had been massive and it extended further down into the earth, but it was something they could handle. They had run through enough killhouses in training to do it quick and relatively clean.

He pointed his gun at a woman who had been lying on a couch, and then to a half-naked man, his hands brought up to beat back the unkind glare of the flashlight on his rifle. It was his squad that had told them to get down, but it was he who had taken their gazes of fear.

A few doors down Loke had used her right leg to kick in the door, Nutt going around her and tossing in a flashbang.

He shouldn't have after the two had gone in, the one person resisting being a mother, a caretaker, with a knife. Loke hesitated as the red optic sights had settled on her face.

The shrill shrieks of babies and children had followed the deafening whine of the flashbang.

The knife had actually found home into the side of Loke's stomach.

" _Auuugh!_ "

Nutt had been fast to react as the butt of his rifle swiped across the woman's face, further intensifying the screams of the little ones, the knife left in Loke's side as she had stayed standing despite it, she gripping her rifle with white knuckles as she did everything to ignore the wound, and stave off insanity as she saw children, all around her, screaming, crying, ears bleeding in the worst cases as they held their eyes clenched shut.

It was too much for her.

"Medic! Medic! Doc!" Nutt's yell into the halls had been answered quickly as Loke's eyes had gone blank but for a moment, but came alive again as Nutt tried to guide her to the hall. She pushed him off, throwing the knife out and away with a metal clang, the bottom half of her kit leaking with her own red as she got her armor and plate carrier off.

She had known the drill as she had taken off the top half of her FROG suit, compressing her hands on her wound as Doc ran toward her, she laying herself down and clumsily sliding her combat lifesavers his way.

Cam had poked his head out from the door down as he heard the commotion and the cry for medic, his own eyes cold as he feared that he had just lost another soldier.

"Don, go check-" she wasn't able to get her words out as she waved her hand into the doorway, Nutt had put two and two together, going in and making sure the children were okay, dragging out the unconscious body for their defender.

Doc had gone to work quick as he laid his rifle beside her, latex put on lightning fast as he had ripped open the life savers. "Talk to me Talia, what do you feel." he said quickly, yet calmly.

"Don't worry Doc, she didn't hit anything important."

"Really?" he thought otherwise as he had taken his knife's sheath and offered it for her to bite down on, Cam covering both of them with his rifle out. "Bite down."

Doc's fingers had glazed over her hardened stomach, spreading the cut just barely as he looked at the extent. Talia had grunted once into the leather, groaning following as Doc had just as quickly taken out some anti-septics, rubbing it on his hands and then onto the surrounding skin with little complaint.

For all her gentleness, Loke had been a Ranger despite it all.

"Sit rep." Cam had said as he looked down at his pointman.

The medicinal gel that had made battlefield medicine rather boring (in Doc's opinion) had been smeared on top of the anti-septic and into the wound, only for a syringe to be taken out and a white foam to fill in the cavity, Loke winging in her face as the burn that would've saved her from any measure of bleeding out temporarily filled her wound.

Doc had talked to Loke instead. "Small penetrating wound to the colon. Get you some place to lay down and I'll zip you back up tight with a simple suture, for now, relax." she had no real intention too as she grabbed her bloody FROG shirt and put it back on, the M45 in her holster unlocked and drawn as she had sat he back against the wall, controlling her breathing.

He looked up at his sergeant, the man nodding as the unbreached door down had flung open.

Out came the devil himself, or, at least, one of his associates in Akusho. The Bessera head had been something like a younger, more built version of Cato, wives and daughters following him out in the rush.

Two guards had seen them as they crawled out of that mass of people.

"Stop!" Masterson had yelled in his native tongue, directed at the Italian.

The guards had pushed on regardless.

They were cut down as Masterson and Doc shot them in their nightly gowns, swords still drawn to them.

The bullets had over penetrated however, and their impacts against two small forms in that rushing crowd had made them fall over and be trampled by the escaping mass.

A teenage boy and a teenage girl had been what remained as their broken bodies bled, being left behind.

" _Oh son of a bitch_ -!" Masterson had known exactly what he had just did, Doc not exactly caring as he had automatically took off away from Loke's side to the two fallen forms, his face that of controlled horror. He had no time to acknowledge why they had ended up like this as he started treating them, saving them.

Masterson took off running after the mass alone, Nutt trying desperately to calm the children down, Loke looking at the unmoving body of a woman that had made her bleed.

" _ **Peters, Wilkes, Omar!**_ The Italian is currently egressing outside in a hurry, intercept now! Hitman Actual get the MAV over them I need eyes on!"

" _Roger Cam._ "

The three Rangers had heard the call as they stormed out of the building. It wasn't hard to see the target, not with the NVGs and his huge mass of human shields fleeing with him.

They were making a B-line right toward the opening in the wall. Even as several of the Hitmen looked down at them from the wall, no shot could be taken with the density of the fleeing crowd.

Harris had brought his M60 up still, pointing it as downward as he could into the dirt in front of the crowd.

Up and out the dirt had gone with the spray of the machine gun, those that faltered coming to be trampled underneath the crowd. "Aw fuck this- Flash out!" The snipers turned away as Harris fumbled with his kit, getting the cylindrical explosives out and dropping them into the crowd with his throwing arm. The hit would've been enough to down most people, however the blast of white light and the force that came from it had made many stumble and fall as the following Rangers almost caught up.

Still the Italian pushed on with one of his his wives and several kids.

"Khan! Go!"

Khan charged at the sound of Peters voice, but bogged down over the fallen bodies of the running crowd, the Rangers also falling victim as they finally pressed out the front door.

"Oh what the shit! We don't even know these streets!" Corporal Wilkes had screamed, trying to get bead on the leg of the Italian, the man darting right behind a corner before he could squeeze off a round. Still Khan had went, disappearing as he chased.

"The roofssss! The roofssss!" a ragged voice that was not Bannon's, instead it was the lizards from the battlements, pointing along the roofs.

"Ah _you gotta be shittin' me_." Private Omar had followed up.

"No use bellyaching, go!" Peters had been on point as he went out the gate and latched onto the brick side of a building, dropping his combat ruck before having gone out. The rest of the men did the same, clambering onto the two story roof over Akusho. The compact nature of many of the buildings had led to rooftop paths being a thing.

The three men had followed the barking in their run over the roofs.

They hadn't been the only ones drawn by the barking however.

The Residents of Akusho hadn't been nightcrawlers, however the ruckus happening at the estate of Bessara had made them awake, especially with a few of the Kay's Demons bumping on top of their roofs. However another reason being was that it became very obvious that the crime lord had been out in the open, free for the taking.

"Why do we gotta wear these fucking capes! We ain't superheroes on some shit!" Omar had barely gotten over a gap as the sound of more running footsteps behind them had caught up. It was Masterson with a few others, the man not slowing down.

The MAV had been buzzing overhead, keeping track of the HVT, but Khan had been on top of it.

Literally.

The speed of a German Shepherd in full sprint had been thirty or so miles per hour. Given a straight street to go down he was able to go dead on against the target he had been told to fetch. The dog's focus wouldn't allow him to fully observe this however, but he had slowed down due toa crowd encircling him, bandits and thugs and residents all wronged by him in some way.

The only reason they hadn't jumped him at that moment had been because of that canine beast of Hitman's pushing through, snarling, growling, roaring, as he had bit through robes and into the man's leg.

As Khan had clamped his teeth down on his thigh, trying to fight both the dog and the coming mass of angry men and women, the devils above had appeared with one gunshot into the air like thunder: The Italian's wives whimpering as the Rangers stood on the rooftops over this scene.

Masterson had been the one to ring out a shot throughout all of Akusho, his M45 being snapped from pointing upward to down to the ground toward those who wanted to sack the man.

"Hands off! This is the Demon Lord's take!"

"The Demon Lord!? As if he will truly do what he deserves!" one dissented had screamed from the crowd. One thing that one of the titles that Emerson had attained implied that he had ruled over his own kind as a Lord. The mob had only realized that Emerson was a Lord over Demons as the Rangers, in sync, their cloaks fluttering as they landed on the streets below, accepted who they were to them. Opportunities such as the one presented to Hitman that night were few and far between.

Their night vision goggles when locked back and up on their helmets had portrayed themselves inadvertently like horns, their footprints of designs that seemed arcane when their red prints were left behind.

The green lasers coming from their designators had come on, painting themselves across the crowd after Nutt had left his going, the mystery of the technology making the mob see into the eyes of the Americans, and peering into the mystery, the abyss.

The Americans stared back as they got their point across, drawing their lasers across the bodies menacingly.

Masterson had gone into the circle toward Bessara and his wives and daughters, out reaching a hand. "I don't mean to hurt you. Let's go."

And all the man did was tremble as that hand had come toward him: bloody, leather gloved. "Lies! Lies! _**Lies!**_ "

The crowd had heard what Bessara had called that golden haired demon as he outreached a hand, only to beat the man's face in once to the ground as two others had seized the rest to the ground.

"Leave!" he had yelled out, once again getting his shotgun from his back, racking it once, pointing it up to the sky, and blowing out.

The great shockwave of the blast in the air had rippled through the crowd and no sooner than its echo stopped had that crowd scurried back into the filth of Akusho, leaving the Rangers with their VIP.

Peters whistled hard, Khan getting off the target as Masterson approached him, pistol out, licking his lips as he looked down at the man and his wives, his children, his family. He held two fingers on the receiver of his radio. "Hitman 2-1 here. The Italian secured. Be advised, we also have his family here too. Over."

"Hitman Actual. Copy. Over."

"What do we do with them, Kay?" he said softly, the children and women writhing in anxiousness, in fear.

A stressed silence, murmurings in the background as the sound of rucksacks being lifted was heard.

"Rendezvous at the estate, we'll hold them there. I'm bringing Squad One."

* * *

"Rendezvous at the estate, we'll hold them there. I'm bringing Squad One."

Emerson had gotten up as he had put his gear on top of Foulke's armor, Squad One already ready to move.

The Japanese Major had stopped him before he made his way downstairs, closing the UAV feed laptop. "You going to be returning?"

"Not unless you want me to."

That was all the JSDF needed as the JSDF assumed control of that house, and Squad One disappeared into the darkness, following the twin snakes.

When they arrived the bodies from the gaurds Squad Two had taken out at the gates had still been there, bleeding. Those gates had been open however by two of Masterson's men.

Bannon had been quick to follow up. "I want everyone, 100% watch, all sectors covered on this wall. Think Italica."

And her squad had gone off to on top of the walls as she followed Emerson into the house, leaving bloody footprints of a battle come and gone just mere seconds ago in their wake.

Like clockwork the Rangers had collected the survivors, having tied them all up and forced them to the floor of the entry way, bound by hands and feet like hogs, among them had been the Italian's wives and children. Peters had been watching over them, silently, Khan by his side and circling them all into a manageable herd. "He tried to use them as cover." he said in his blunt voice.

The "cover" all recognized who had appeared next to that strange warrior and his dog.

With that, they knew who had gone bump in the night for them:

Demon Lord, and his Demons.

When they could they had offered their own blood to him.

" _For Rory. For Emroy._ _ **For you**_ _._ " some had chanted as they collected bloods from their own open wounds, bleeding noses, and otherwise into their palms.

It wasn't what the Rangers had expected the reaction to be to Emerson.

"What is it with _**you fucking people**_." he fumed, but they didn't acknowledge.

When he denied, they had simply transitioned over to Bannon and offered her blood in her name.

She had been left speechless as Emerson shook his head in disappointment and went on.

"Captain." the call for Emerson had made the two snap right into the main hallway. It was Nutt.

"Private. Sitrep?"

"Masterson is attending to the Italian right now."

"And Corporal Loke?"

"Doc's patching her up right now." Emerson nodded as Bannon had used her elbow to tap Peters lightly, drawing his attention. "He says she should be green in a day or two."

"Keep them here. Any of them do anything funny, do what you need to do." she said that in regards to mostly women and children.

Peters had thought nothing of it. "Yes ma'am."

The door had opened and the Italian had looked up in horror of who had come in. He tried to rattle in his chair, to get is bounds loose, but he could do nothing as the one eye'd woman and the Demon Lord walk toward him with a purpose.

"Pleased to meet you. I hope you've guessed my name by now."

"Kay Ro Bronxon…"

"Sure. I request two things, and two things only from you." Emerson had taken his name from him as the two sergeants flanked him, Masterson's hair sweaty and wrecked after a good portion of time in a balaclava. "Your daily meetings with the other lords of Akusho. Where are they held, and the slaves: where are their contracts and documents detailing them as property."

Silence, spit, a kick into the man's stomach had been the answer and a response.

Masterson had finally taken off his balaclava and goggles, blood stained at this point except for the sunken divets that had been where his eyes had laid.

"Look at that. I was Deadpool." between the sweat and the other bodily fluids the mask had been damp, a sloshing sound highlighting its impact on the ground.

Emerson stood up in front of him, the man on his back on the ground and heaving for air. " _ **Look here shit-for-brains**_ , I have more important matters to be tending to. The kind that you just so happen to be standing in the way of. Answer the question or else we'll have to get it from you the easy way or the hard way."

"Yeah? What's the easy way Demon Lord?"

Bannon cracked her knuckles. She was still drunk, but that was to her advantage. Masterson on the other hand, he had broken horses before; people.

"My two sergeants beat it out of you."

"That's the easy way?!"

"The hard way is I make you less than a man."

"You kid yourself."

"I won't kill you, even though you disgust me. It's against my conventions of war to, and I'll make sure none of my men and women touch you as well, but either way if you do not provide me what I want, I will cast you out onto the streets and your usual customers, your rivals, and even your products, will tear you and your family limb from limb."

"You think that any of that will be enough to spill the beans on my business? Our business?" A man with no compassion. No emotion. He would be taught fear and humility Emerson thought and he would know only that.

"Yes. Sergeant Bannon, Sergeant Masterson. _ **Break him**_."

Bannon had gone forward first, taking the man's neck and pushing him to the back wall, the man's head recoiling, knocking his skull as he lost his breath from the hit. Before another gasp had been sucked in Bannon had caught up, slamming her fist into the middle of the man's chest.

The Italian slumped over, his feet losing balance as Masterson knocked his head over, the man slumping over as the bloodied heel came down again and again and again and again.

The sound of Bannon's breaching crowbar against his bone, the bone stock of Emerson's Winchester over his face, and Masterson's boot on his flesh. A cycle of pain and hurt that was purposeful.

It was morning when he threw up his guts and the information at around the same time.


	25. 2-6O: MARSOC

A/N:

A different Emerson

a different story

a storyline that may or might not exist.

 ** _(don't confuse this with an actual full chapter, go back one so you don't miss the actual 2-6)_**

* * *

 _ **Section 2-6 Omega**_

* * *

Fingers on keys, tapping away at a report, Peters playing with the plastic guitar, a comfortable silence even as Bannon breathed through her mouth, the rumble of her throat making it known she wanted to say something.

"Ever imagine what it would be like to a Marine? MARSOC?" Bannon had asked as her fingertips lost themselves in Khan's fur.

The captain zoned out, eyes furrowed, looking at the floor as his right hand curled around a grip that was not there.

* * *

 _Itami threw a punch at Loke to be let go, and it landed, sending her to the floor as he turned around and tried to put himself in between the machine and the god._

 _The gunshot to his thigh had made him fall short of everything. "_ _Yeahrg! Fuck-!_ _"_

 _The tanker's M9 and Emerson's USP had been both up, but no one had known who had fired the shot._

 _It didn't matter at this point as one of the MARSOC Operators walked out without order and dragged Itami's bleeding form away, and he screamed, struggled, and cursed America._

 _"_ _ **Elton!**_ _" Emerson yelled as the last of his Operator's mags were emptied into the bubbling body to keep her still._ " _Terminate with extreme prejudice!_ "

 _"Everyone back!"_

 _"Get the fuck back! We're hitting her with main gun!"_

* * *

"Kay?"

Emerson had come out of his momentary trance, nodding, his thumb grazing over the chain of his dog tags before letting some air out of his green undershirt. "Maybe in another world. I like being Army. Nice and simple."


	26. 2-7: An American War

_**A/N:**_ Nothing much to say for this chapter save for this: I want to hear what you have to say about it after you're done reading it, because I know the next episode is released very soon, and it'll be the scenes I depict here.

Anyway, review responses.

To all of you referring to Faust's Story - It is. I'm bound not to say whether or not that rough draft is as is, because chances are it was just an experiment between the two of us of how we'd write a final show down, but don't take any of that too seriously. It stands for something more than just an event. It stands for an inevitability past a certain point.

It might not even be Rory as you guys are guessing. There are more than one apostle out there, remember.

In Here We Go Again, Emerson is a bit older, a bit more concrete in his identity as a soldier. He is what an Operator should be, contrasted to how he is here. An "ideal" version of Emerson, perhaps.

Rear Mirrors - I'm not sure what you're talking about with the senate thing, but I'll address Blackburn. Blackburn is a character donated to this story from Riptide for his participation in helping me build the timeline and his tie-in story to Manifest Destiny. As for the naming and his girlfriend, take it up with him, but I only realized that they were Battlefield names after the fact. As for the dream context, well, read Here We Go Again and it might get to that point.

Krulla Chief - China actually invaded North Korea to the north and made it to Pyongyang according to my history, otherwise they didn't put any forces south of the Daedong River, as is the actual Chinese plan (refer to OPLAN 5029). The Air Force did start fielding Lightnings (Noelle flew one during the conflict), as for the Navy, perhaps. I'm not too literate in Naval operations and I haven't played that game. I'm more of a Wargame Red Dragon sort of strategy player.

Whatdoiputhere - Valentine will have his redemption.

Bongos - Thanks, but I don't exactly understand.

In general - Maybe I'm borrowing from Kojima...

Just a teensy bit.

Also be aware some of the line breaks aren't working. Also go check out that RP that's happening in FF net's first GATE forum, should be interesting. I might pop in.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-7**_

 _ **Posted on 1/14/16**_

* * *

Pure, stinging bile. That was what had erupted from Masterson's stomach as he and Bannon were crumpled over in the bushes. Bannon had been trying to settle her counterpart, but nothing could stop his pain as he realized what he had done to that man.

 _"Why the fuck-_ _ **Was that**_ _really needed?!_ "

Bannon had simply rubbed circle into Masterson's back as he had taken a full realization of what he had beaten a man to do.

"Cam, hun', come on, I'm supposed to be the one puking."

More and more Cam had heaved, uneasy, unsure of what had happened. Killing people was just fine, that was the inevitability of his job. It hadn't been right or wrong, he just knew he was going to do it, but torture, making suffering for so long, that hadn't been right.

"Cam. Cam. Come on, pull together here."

"Well shit, Lisa, I know that bastard deserved it, I saw that corpse pile in the basement, but, but- I don't know how you and Emerson can do that."

"It's not easy."

They had a reason. They saw the reason. A reason more real than just dead bodies. The slaves had been Emerson and Bannon's reason to not let up, to deal with it, to keep beating in his face until he spilled more than blood.

Bannon rubbed her sleeve over Masterson's mouth once, bringing him up, bringing him in, arms around and her forehead in the cranny of his neck. Their weapons never left their hands, however one had been open to hold each other's.

It had been just for a second but their palms had been red with blood and ran between their interlocked fingers. Minus the blood it had been almost like their first meeting again, in that motel in a Texas far away. This time it had been Masterson that was conflicted, breaking down.

"Hey, dumbass couple, captain wants you on the balcony in five."

The two had shook themselves apart as one of their Rangers had caught them. More specifically it had been one of Masterson's.

"Yeah, thanks Tony." he had said, conscience of himself as he had seen his bloody mark on Bannon in the embrace.

Bannon had turned away from the man entirely as Masterson wiped his hand on his pants in realization, trying to make sure he hadn't looked like a horror show in day light.

The Ranger had stayed there as he had seen his team leader be basked in the new clarity of the day, a reflection almost.

They had worn the kit and uniforms of the Rangers of old, crossed with what the 7th MEU could give: and what that had meant was that their BDUs and MCCUUs had been of a desert camouflage, their vests and kit a woodland pattern from the Cold War. It hadn't been the more refined, advanced plate carriers and rigs that they had expected to use a long time ago in training, preparing to deploy in a normal world north of the Taedong River or in the arid territory of Mexico.

During the early stages of the Iraq War the Marines, then suffering from a logistical mix-up in during the buildup before stepping off, had been issued woodland camouflage to invade the desert country.

Here with the retrograde of equipment and arms, the Marines and the Rangers had found themselves in the déjà vu of another invasion. Granted this time it had been the reverse: they were issued desert camouflage mostly with a few spatterings of woodland to "invade" a Mediterranean region.

The colors, the fabrics, had not been kind to red and blood painting them in splotches and spray, however hopefully that had been the only déjà vu carried over from the Iraq War.

Contrasted against Bannon's relatively clean form, the Ranger had seen himself how he looked after breaching so many doors and shooting at point blank.

"Movies always tell me this would be loud. But nah, it was rather quiet, I think." the man had ran his gloved hands through his beard, dust coming from it. "No one ever told me how gruesome it could get."

Italica, as life threatening as it was, had been impersonal: too large in scale to feel private. Private, man to man work was what special forces usually worked with; what all of Hitman had been promised when they signed up as Rangers either from out of civilian life or from out of the Army already. Not the monstrosity of armies clashing and the sound of thunder that resounded through worlds and history.

This little VIP hunt had been different. It was what they were trained to do and they had done it for the first time, walking through the red mists they made.

Doing it had felt so right, but no one had told them what the long fall after the battle had felt like: the relief that they were alive, that they could've been killed as Loke had demonstrated with her stabbing.

Masterson had looked at the same damage he wore be put on the Ranger before that found the two of them, both of them looking each other up and down, their boots and laces crusted slightly with the dried remains of whatever they had been stepping in after a point in that battle.

Masterson reeled himself back in as he smelt the aroma of death, realizing it came from him. "Well this shit ain't good for the skin, I'll tell you that." he tried to smile uneasily.

Tony hadn't even tried to hide his lack of enthusiasm. "Think that Navy guy got the showers set up back over there?"

"Nah. I don't think so Tone… might bring 'em here though. This house was almost as big as my ma and pa's."

"Yeah? Well I owned several houses this big once."

"All of them were in China and no one ever bought them, Lisa."

"I'm so glad you remembered…"

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 47**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital – The Bessara Estate**_

* * *

Emerson had let the blood stay on his knuckles. A habit of one too many matches immediately after the other in the colosseum. His palms had stained the white wood of that balcony, looking at the Imperial sunrise over the capital, the dragon riders out for their morning rounds as the bodies from last night's skirmish had seemed to sink into the ground with the morning light.

Slowly those bodies had been picked up by the new prisoners of the Bessara family and their surviving guards.

That was their punishment: to take them, strip them of their armors and weapons, and brought into the house with the rest of the corpse pit in the basement.

The alternative was to be cast out into the street to die. It was only because the Rangers had patrolled the walls the populace of Akusho hadn't started pillaging the estate.

As they had understood it from the _Son of Lies_. Masterson would come to know how easy it was for people like him to have a title as Emerson did, and he would owe that to the Italian.

Unsurprisingly Emerson had been smoking as his two sergeants joined him, leaning on their newly claimed balcony.

"Bessara was one of the larger crime lords in this area." he started, pocketing the e-cig into one of his vest pockets. He only pulled out a real cigar in turn, lighting it as if he had been smoking all his life. "Owned a good forty percent of the slave population in most of Akusho, along as holding some contracts with a few senators for their own personal fuck slaves."

Those documents had been in a few lockboxes at Emerson's feet, Bannon nodding satisfied.

"Gonna set them free?" Bannon's voice had almost sounded clear with her hopefulness.

"All at once?"

"You can't?"

"If we do that we'll plunge this district into Civil War. I know many slaves who promised to butcher their owners when they would be set free. It's no wonder why many of them are under lifetime contracts then…" he looked at Bannon's one despairing. She wanted so badly to free them she had basically vibrated in her own skin. It took all of her self-restraint to simply stay on guard at the PX and not go out into Akusho to free them all from the markets around. "I have a solution for now, however."

"Please, do tell sir." Masterson had said, using his hand to wave off one of the prisoners to get back to work.

"I give these to Blackburn and he holds a lotter each day for four or so slaves. Seyton and Samnu will then handle the rest, I've been actually training them to handle smuggling the free men and women out to the Corridor."

"So you were planning to have them walk back?"

"No, I presume that they'll be supply shipments back and forth. They can ride those out."

"Better than nothing I guess…" Bannon had mumbled.

"Right. Also we got the location. I radioed back to RCT1 and Major Higaki and he says he'll handle it."

Masterson squinted is eyes at the phrasing. "Handle it?"

"His exact words."

"Rather ominous in my opinion."

"Yeah as long as Bessara is still alive, I think I can prevent anything from going wrong in this district."

"I presume crime isn't any different here than it is in Mexico with the cartels?"

"Yeah. When a boss goes down the assets and personnel shift to the bigger one."

"I have a feeling The Italian will be the only one standing at the end of it, and he will answer to us."

"What makes you think he will?"

"He's in that pit of bodies too. I'll keep him in there for a few days and when he says he'll listen to us, I'll let him out."

"Sounds… harsh."

"It was either that or threaten to kill his family, and you and I both know you wouldn't let any of us do that."

The stories of the Coalition of the Damned, and the Damned 33rd, had still persisted today. The Rangers had reeked of that legacy whether they knew it or not. "Shit, you sound like Walker." Masterson had said tiredly, only now realizing he hadn't put his rifle on safe. A flick of his thumb had fixed that. "I suppose he would be proud of how we fought last night. Actually felt like I was using _**his**_ training."

Bannon and Masterson had been one of Walker's first cadets, however ever since then the Army had began to notice his brutal training tactics and reeled him back. It wasn't enough for him to not step in when he saw would be Rangers with "potential".

"I'm only a little jealous." Bannon's contemplation had been soft, looking down at her unused rifle and flicking the safety on and off.

Emerson tilted his head toward her. "If RCT1 botches their takedown of the crime lords, you're on deck then Bannon."

She had nodded happily, running her hands over the woodwork of the balcony. "Blackburn was bitching about how he needed a bigger place for an embassy for the Japanese and us." she had seen the building from the UAV feed. The civilian part of her had evaluated it just as much as her military part had done. Her parents had this type of walled off mansion at the foot of one of Montana's many mountains. A good to honest mansion, not a McMansion that still existed in America's slowly recuperating suburbia.

Bessera's estate had stood in defiance over the filth of Akusho around it, much like how America and Japan would when they established the embassy here, she thought. She couldn't but help to feel a little snobbish thinking of it like that. It reminded her of her own parents.

The slow fizzle of the cigar had burned up with the smoke, Emerson following it up into the sky as he had ran his other hand on the wood as well. "I don't know how the hell I'd ever live in a house this big."

Masterson had been more attentive to Emerson's feelings than most. He had known him better, almost as family at that point a year plus in. He had seen the slight furrow in his brow and the cringe on his mouth. He didn't like what had transpired before him and what he had saw in relation to Bessera. Perhaps it had only because of his ugly deeds which he had seen daily for the past month, or maybe because he had never done anything about it out of fear of blowing his cover, but still it had upset the man. Conversation always did him good.

"It takes some getting used to, Kay." Masterson had said as he remembered how he used to live as a child. His nanny would often play hour long Hide and Seek sessions with him in the grand expanse of his parent's house.

"Well I don't even think I own enough stuff to fill even one bedroom." Fact of the matter was Emerson had only owned that much for his small bedroom back in the Bronx apartment his family had lived. The cramped living conditions he had lived in had been no doubt the reason he spent more time roaming rooftops as opposed as trapped in a room no growing boy could grow up as best he could in.

Masterson had patted Emerson's back roughly. "Everything I ever owned before I joined up fit inside my backpack and my chopper's saddle bag sir."

Bannon shrugged as she had remembered her beloved pickup truck. "I think most of my stuff is still in my truck bed, assuming no one broke into that storage park."

"Well if they stole your shit, my shit is stolen too… hey Kay, you don't think we could send some of our stuff over to your place next time we're stateside?"

A smile, a smirk, some bubbly young voice as Emerson shook his head and put out his cigar for later. "I wanted to take you guys to see my family anyway. Whenever I talk to Mom she always wants to hear about you guys, seeing as you take care of me or some ridiculous shit like that."

"Aw shucks. Course we're gonna pay you guys a visit one day… maybe I can win your family over so me and Bannon can find an actual house to live in again."

"My Dad works for the VA actually so I don't think he'd have a heart to turn you down."

"That'd be…. nice." There was a lie in Bannon's thankfulness. She had the money now supposedly to live alone, dumped into her account via the cut she got from Lelei, however she couldn't buy family. She couldn't leave the surrogate she had found for that crucial part of the human condition. Not again. She rubbed her compromised eye against Doc's advice. It had gotten irritated during certain moments like these. "Your orders, captain?"

The distant roar of a dragon had spoken before Emerson could, all of them looking out toward the capital and remembering where they really were. "Sergeant Bannon, I want you to stay here with both Team One and Team Two and keep patrolling these walls. No one in or out without my permission."

"Yes sir."

"Sergeant Masterson, I want you to escort both Doc, Loke, and Ramirez back to the house, alert Blackburn he has his embassy location and stay on site with Itami. I'll join you before midnight to check up on ya, alright? No fooling around with Kurata."

"I'm more Anime than manga anyway, sir."

"Good…Dismissed." the two sergeants had turned away after they straightened their shoulders and held their faces straight, acknowledging his orders, Emerson nodding in response. He had croaked out one last thing before he continued smoking. "Nice job last night Cam." the man had paused as he winced. He didn't think the same.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor – The Officer's House**_

* * *

"Why the hell did it take you so long to ask us man?" Warlord 1-2, the "Rolling Stone", had been a rather odd group of Afghanistan War II veterans that made their way into the 7th MEU's armored column weeks before D-Day. Much like the rest of the Warlords, they had all once held positions in the energy sector.

Their tank had been currently in the maintenance bay of Kilgore going through retrofits, and their tank commander and gunner had joined Lieutenant Colonel Noelle that morning for coffee in the Officer's House in the original refugee village.

Naturally Yao and Wilbur had found them there.

"Bigger fish in the pond, Jasper. He was able to half hook one a few days ago." Noelle sipped on his coffee after Delilah had all so politely filled in his mug, a little more seductive leaning forward with her form tempting the men. The Officer's House had been both her home and a favorite of the NCOs and COs of the Special Task Force. Perhaps it had been because Delilah had been so friendly (and willing to show that friendliness), but the food had been good enough and the furnishings comfortable.

"Did we hook you?" Yao had asked. She was the most exhausted out of everyone, most of that exertion out of wanting to ignore the aching knowledge in her head that her clan was still suffering as she had worked a domestic job in the Corridor. It made her feel disgusting selfish, as much as Wilbur had told her otherwise as she had joined him on the nights before his shift was over.

Noelle had put his mug down, the glass making a rather frustrated ding against the even the matted table. "Dammit, course I want to help you, also I wouldn't mind the damn glory of painting a Flame Dragon killmark on my Hornet, but I have to refer my flight plan to the Japanese flight commander and I really can't do much about it."

"Well that's because you consistently break off those flight plans." Corporal Elton's own cup of coffee had barely been sipped at as Noelle had half finished his own, the tank commander throwing a little shade the pilot's way.

"Yeah well they haven't rotated me out yet so they can kiss my ass."

Wilbur had moved his head left and right at the man subtly. "Is this all a game to you?"

There was a little liquor mixed in with the coffee all around, Yao barely finding any comfort in the sugar she had put in hers. "There are some things out of our control. So why bother?"

Noelle had talked like a man who didn't care at all, but perhaps he had been a different man some time ago, before he had to do what he did in Korea.

"Because there are people at hazard here."

"Well my fuckin' job is to put people at hazard on my terms, and the Corps doesn't pay me to just sit on my ass."

"So you do understand what it feels like?"

The corner of Noelle's mouth had tugged as he put his arms on the table and crossed them, shrugging. He wasn't used to living like this, to actually walk among the enemy in his mind when he hadn't been in his plane. Every battlefield he had ever flew over, dropped ordnance on, from the Middle East to Korea, he had only visited; been a visitor. His usual air base had been miles and miles away usually from the front.

The other tankers too had felt something wrong with it. "I don't like it either. The locals are getting too uppity about worshipping the tanks. I'd rather us be moving somewhere. Hell, maybe even go off on a recon missions like the RCTs and the Rangers did when we were first here."

"Go out in an Abrams for a recon mission? What kind of nonsense is that?"

"Just sayin'."

Noelle fidgeted. "Truth be told the only reason why me and my squadron are flying is because we just need to burn fuel for more stuff to come in… Blackburn "smuggles" some supplies with the fuel shipment."

"How you know?" the tank commander asked.

"The Ell-Ay-W system came in with the last shipment, got it mounted on the AC-130 right now I think."

"Ah. Wish we got our point lasers back." Elton had remarked on the M1A5s defense systems as he lost himself of the thought of how many times that system had saved him from ATGMs during the Forever War that had been in the Middle East. "Me and Jasper here have been sitting on our ass too admittedly, ever since they brought in the tank we don't actually have any standing orders or anything. My driver and loader are back at Ginza actually, and when the MPs questioned them they weren't actually supposed to be anywhere, so they're still over there."

"You sound jealous boss." cigarettes, coffee, and cereal had been what brought the gunner awake in the morning.

"I'm just tryin' to catch up on sleep, is all." he ran his hand through matted hair, his own cape draped across the back of his chair. He had also been knighted by Myui much like Wilbur due to his position as tank commander. "Unlike Wilbur here, this tank commander doesn't have something to occupy himself. My damn mind keeps going back to Italica."

Wilbur's face had blanked for a second, remembering what all of them had been through together with the other tanks.

He had his own personal crusade going on, but he didn't forget that he was a Marine.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine. Ain't nothing I haven't dealt with before." he had rubbed his neck down from his hair, looking at his reflection in the coffee as Noelle looked out the window to the rather nice day forming. It was flying weather. Both his hands had cupped his mug as he pointed at Wilbur. "The time table for all of our maintenance are already pre-set, Wilbur. And I know the engies are already overworked helping out with the Seabees…"

Kincaid had tipped his head up from his cereal, eyes wide as the trade of thought his tank commander had had hit him, the man hitting him on the shoulder to no effect. "Oh come on Parker, don't give them any ideas."

"I'm just sayin' if somehow 1-3 disappeared out of thin air, no one would mind for a week until Sevson realizes he's missing a tank… and even then you might be able to get back in time."

"It took me a week to travel here on foot…" Yao said quietly, knowing before Wilbur what Corporal Elton was implying.

"And because Rolling Stone is currently in the garage, Italica's western view to the plains is more or less uncovered. I hear if you take those plains out for some time you should be able to get out of range of any Special Task Force elements and be able to go on a little adventure before someone got nosy…"

Noelle licked his lips. He really did want to help. "And perhaps I could tell you that the aircraft are under direct order to not go outside the designated AO, we have to cease, if that so happens to be the case, to chase a few missing soldiers."

"Is that so…?"

Wilbur and Yao had squeezed each other's hands tighter as the details had been coming forth, more hope coming from their eyes. If only Hitman could come that'd be the icing on the cake.

They hadn't even remembered when their hands had found each other's.

Delilah's ears had been liable to twitch if she had been listening to anything, and seeing as they had been the only customers in that corner of the House at that moment, Noelle had lifted his index finger to his lips. He had been suspicious of the bunny woman. He had been suspicious of just about every local for that matter, but Delilah had really stirred his gut feeling regarding that.

"Got no idea what you're talking about." he had said.

The Officer's House had also been where the Rose Order had spent their days translating documents for Pina. Most of it had been cleared material, but ever since Hitman had caught them smuggling some of the modern world's history back a closer eye had been kept on them.

Not everything could be caught however.

Not everything.

Crying, a shock of horror, puking and derangement. Tired and drowsy heads had snapped to the conference section of the building, a very stunned Bozes having come out. One hand had been at her mouth, other grasping a folder of papers.

Noelle had shot out of his seat, the holster over his pilot jumpsuit, his M9A3's holster being habitually unlocked. Yao had gone over to Bozes first, speaking the Lingua Franca before Delilah could, she dropping off a few items at a table of other soldiers.

Wilbur and Noelle hadn't been as literate in the Lingua Franca as Hitman or RCT3 were, and they didn't understand the fast burst of conversation between Bozes and Yao as the latter had collapsed on her knees, letting go of the folders as if it had been the damning weight that it was.

She had been disgusted, distressed, and horrified as Wilbur had walked up, a hand out.

That hand had immediately been slapped away as Bozes had stared at him straight in the eye and called him something not many people did. And she used it as if they were accursed words. _ **"American."**_

He raised both his hands up defensively. "What?" Only Itami, Tomita, and some of Hitman had known what Bozes saw through the virtual reality goggles in Tokyo.

She had nightmares. Horrible, gruesome nightmares. Nights when she woke up to children melting on top of her with a mushroom cloud in the background, and she could do nothing as she was engulfed by it. Images of her capital burned to glass and everything she had ever held dear.

Tomita had often shared a bed with her nowadays to comfort her almost immediately after she woke up.

The way she had clung to her bodyguard in Tokyo, the person who had been so protective of her despite the nations of their birth, she had appreciated that beyond words.

Especially beyond words during wordless nights filled with more groans and moans that had been the fear of every regulation respecting military commander.

Yao had only answered for her however, Delilah walking by and also grabbing onto Bozes as she threatened to stare a hole right into Wilbur and Noelle's face with her own pale features, made ugly by an anger Wilbur had never seen before.

Delilah had slowly puller her away from Yao, saying that she would've taken her to her room to settle down, however Bozes had never stopped looking at Wilbur or Noelle as she was dragged away into the hall.

Noelle had been quick to pick up the folder that Bozes had dropped on the ground as Wilbur and Yao traded questions and answers of what had just happened.

It had been a biography he had discovered, and it was stamped with a clearance record that even he as a Lieutenant Colonel did not have. And yet still he looked as Wilbur and Yao both stared with him, Yao phonetically sounding out the name that Bozes had translated before she read the details of the evacuation of Dubai.

" _May-jor Mah-tin Walk-er._ "

The two tankers had looked at the folder and saw the classified stamping over it, they quickly taking back the rest of their coffee and laying it on a table. Kincaid had patted Wilbur's shoulder on his way out.

"We'd wish you luck English, but this shit is way above my paygrade."

* * *

Wilbur had more than subtly told Noelle to follow him as he had dropped Yao off at work, the elf nuzzling her nose into both of Wilbur's cheeks before she had went off to her current job as a master craftsman. The Corridor had accommodated more than a few furniture stores with the perpetual buildup of housing, however Yao had also been a popular grip maker for weapons.

"You're getting rather cozy with that elf there, Alton, and not in the Itami-Chuka kind of way."

"Hmph? Well, I've never had a girlfriend before so I can't really tell."

Noelle had furrowed his black eyebrows at the man, his rank had made him a part of the command staff. "I'm trying to tell you I disapprove, tanker…. anyway, what the hell did you bring me out here for?"

"Sev didn't tell you to get out at breakfast the other day. How'd it go?"

"Hazama's pressed hard on him to expand the AO, just so the JSDF could get their hands on those resources. It's a lot of back and forth about creating another Iraq here. Literally that's the entire argument both of them are using. JSDF says this isn't an Iraq, we're saying that we might accidently create one."

"Well technically the Japanese claims this land, right? They're free to do what they want."

"Sure. You can also believe that North Korea still exists, just tell that to National Geographic so they can rewrite the map again."

"I'm just saying there's a shiteload of the good stuff in Elbe and up north near the desert according to the probes. All of it untouched. Scientist told me once they'd need another world to support our society's consumption of natural resources. Well here it is and the Japanese got it under lock and key."

"And here the rest of the world is so desperate we're making everything green, which isn't a bad thing, and trying to dig up Kuwait. Seems unfair, almost."

"Which is why I heard some of the mechanics and engineers have been sidetracked to teach about natural resources to the learning classes right now, right?"

"Wouldn't want the Japanese to have their treasure too easily. That just wouldn't sit well with the rest of the world."

"I don't like the thought of drilling again, you know?"

"Yeah, I hear you…"

"You gonna do anything today?"

"Well for one, I'm gonna burn these papers. For two, I'm gonna go dig around and see where the fuck those knights are getting this info from."

"Gonna take it up with Overlord?"

"Nah, I'll do it independently… Don't know why the Rose Order would want to know who trained a good part of the Fourth Ranger Battalion."

"So, we never saw it?"

Noelle had taken a cigarette out and put it between his lips, lighting it first and taking a drag before looking at the papers before him and running through it one last time. Pilots tended to have photographic memories by training, remembering mission plans literally on the fly. All Wilbur had seen was a blur before the lighter had again sputtered out a flame and lit a corner of the folder, it being cast down onto the gravel street as it burnt to nothing more but a crisp.

"That shit was classified until the 2070s, you say a word about it and we'll have some explaining to do."

"Shit has gotten so boring for you gotta now play detective. Crazy Yank if I ever knew one."

"Yank? Shit, I look as much like a Yank as you sound like one."

"Oh how I'm offended."

"Get a move on, super sergeant. Orders."

It hadn't felt right saluting Noelle, but he had been the ranking officer. He did politely, Noelle returning it before turning away to walk back toward the airfield.

* * *

Wilbur had been good company to Yao, more than good company. She came here in search of a savior, and that had still been her main objective here, however she had found a friend first. A very good friend at that who had been trying his best to become her savior.

For what reasons, he couldn't lie to her: he had done bad to the world he came from and wanted to do something good to make up for it. That and he had thought it right anyway to help her.

Still, Wilbur fought hard and it still wasn't enough.

The one thought that had been always on top of her planning to kill that wounded flame dragon had been one of the first few men that had been referred to her to talk to.

One man had apparently been another dark elf like herself, Emmerson, probably another one of Rory's followers based on his name. He had been wholly unavailable, but he had been one of the people who had rendered the flame dragon as damaged as it was.

The other had been Itami. He had been a man-in-green, not a man-in-tan, and thus he had been able to be much more able to fight on her case as a man in power, a man able to fight her dragon.

He had been with Emerson too, however she knew that he could be drawn away.

She found the how by talking with the tanker she had breakfast with earlier on lunchbreak, the gunner of Warlord 1-2 having wandered in the shop which she worked to browse absentmindedly.

He had been a man of very tan skin color, his hair short, not much older than she had looked. Wilbur had often talked about his fellow Warlords with Lumaban, talking about them with his crewmen. 1-3 had been a special snowflake, not only with the unique configuration of Kingdom Come with its mine plow, but also because Wilbur himself had been making a muck in the higher echelons.

1-2 had been special because they had been the most hardened veterans out of the tank crews. They all had seen combat in the sand box: the most easy going out of all of them on the surface.

The man before her had been a man called Jasper Kincaid, and right now he had been staring up a few swords behind a glass cabinet.

"The blades are provided to us by sword makers on the other side of the Gate, however we make the grips." her introduction was not needed as Jasper spooked himself in a jump, turning around surprised.

Her apron had been lousy with saw dust and ruined with stainer.

"Oh, uhm, hey." he extended a hand and she refrained from shaking it, but only because she raised her palm up and let him see the dirtiness of it. She found a place next to him looking up at the display. "Certainly very nice. I think I'm getting a little jealous of what my tank commander is packing."

"Seems rather fanciful to be jealous of a sword when you wield these things called "guns"."

He had adjusted his glasses as he shrugged. "Nerd like me has to appreciate swords from a world like this…"

"I can perhaps give you a gift if you tell me some information…"

Kincaid had rolled his eyes. He'd seen enough anime to know what that particular sentence had meant. "Oh boy here we go."

"What do you know about Itami?"

"Itami?" he reiterated. "You mean that Japanese guy who was at Ginza?"

"What?" Yao would have no knowledge of Ginza.

"You know, the guy who led his recon team against a fire dragon."

"…Yeah."

"What do you want to know about him? I only know what Wilbur tells me…. that and his favorite three refugees."

"He has a few favorite refugees?"

"Yeah, Chuka Marceau, Madam Lelena, and Police Commander Mercury. They were a few of the first brought back."

"Why are they special to him?"

Kincaid hadn't thought hard about it. "Well he picked them up personally, so I guess that has something to do with it, but god damn he took on a fire dragon for refugees he didn't know jack shit about. Don't know what he'd do for _them_."

Kincaid had been too focused on the swords behind the glass to focus on what he had been saying, admiring the added designs on the blade like some fantastical anime swordsman.

"Hell, I'm sure once Chuka goes over the edge Itami would do something drastic."

Chuka had been the other side of Yao. Crudely speaking the light to her dark. The tale of two elves with a village destroyed. She had not taken the destruction of her home, her family, lightly. In fact she denied that she had lost her father entirely.

The village she could accept in some way, however her own blood was something else. Yao had known she had seen Itami before, threatening him before Wilbur had stepped in and clashed swords. It had been doubtful she could've won him directly over.

"Would Itami do something if Chuka "goes over the edge"?"

"Let me tell ya' something, Miss Ducy. I lost a brother once, in war. Not day goes by where I don't think about what I'd do to the son of a bitch that did it. But if I did, it'd go beyond what I was trained to do. Beyond what my army wanted, what they would allow."

He had nodded to himself multiple times, justifying what he thought as he saw his reflection in the mirror. The man behind the mirror had been the man he and many other Marines had to live with. He knew what he had done. Then and now.

"I never talked to you, just give me a sword, and make it worth my time." he turned around and she wasn't' there. "Fuckin' locals."

Words from a man who had done this before; in an Afghanistan that tried to be rebuilt as the Japanese had tried here.

The storeowner had come up behind him as he had angrily looked at the Japanese blade molded onto an Imperial handle. East and Western design philosophies made one in a weapon.

"Did you need something?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I gave some money to the dark elf you have a few days ago to complete an order, but I can't seem to find her and I wanted to pick up that blade right there."

The orc that had been the owner had crossed his arms as he looked at the blade. It had been a cavalry sword with a few runes imbedded in its handle. "Yao? Did she take your money and run?"

"Uh… nah. Said she just needed to check up on a friend who was in trouble."

"Right. Sorry about this, I'll just hand this off to you now and I'll get the money from Yao later."

* * *

 ** _Falmart – The Imperial Capital – The Devil's House_**

* * *

Two visitors of rather important note had come to the Devil's House as the PX continued to run smoothly, both had been met by RCT3 first.

The garden party had its fair share of children brought along by the nobles and senators, among them having been the Tyueri family and one of the youngest daughters: Sherry.

She made a fuss to Suguwara regarding how her cousin had been a bit showy offy with her pearl necklace. Children being children, jealousy had written on her face as she had basically cradled herself into Suguwara's side and begged him to do something about it.

After some nudging by Pina he had given her some sound advice and promptly made the poor girl fall for him, as Pina had told Itami and Emerson later.

Itami himself had been lazily sitting on the fountain and watching the masses of Akusho come and go from this new PX. He had neglected to wear the cloaks offered to him by Hitman, so he had been easily recognizable by Sherry as she had herself a cloak.

Immediately he had been alarmed as she rushed toward him from the crowd of people. "Sir Itami! Sir Itami!" he had stood up and embraced her as she embraced him as children do.

"Eh? What the heck are you doing out here Sherry? It's dangerous for someone as young as you to be out here!"

"I wanted to see Sir Suguwara!" she said as Itami had picked her up and put her on his shoulder.

"Well Sir Suguwara is at work right now… do your parents know you're out?"

What that work had comprised was getting the senate deliberations together and actually coming out and saying "We want peace against the enemy on Arnus Hill as opposed to mobilizing for war."

It was a rather vague discussion filled with fear and those who did not know (for the Doves weren't invited to the garden party), but to even mention the discussion of peace at all and standing down against an enemy was a careful discussion if nothing else.

Zorzal had been quick to start calling for the "American" support, trying to hunt down Emerson and get him to join. However that had been good seeing as he hadn't gone to straight to throwing senators in dungeons for even considering peace.

"Kurata to Avenger, who's the VIP on your shoulder boss?" his earpiece buzzed as he looked over to Kurata on one of the roofs.

"It's one of the senator's children. She was searching for Suguwara."

Kurata had gotten off the microphone as he screamed below. "I like your enthusiasm kid!" he gave her a thumbs up which she had returned. Itami had glowered, but he'd been generally happy otherwise.

He had liked going out in the Corridor in the same way he had been lounging around right now: reading some of his own backlog provided by Risa. Escapism for him had two folds: into the pages of manga, and in another world altogether.

As usual a child had brought him out of it.

He didn't mind, not when he had walked into the Devil's House.

Kurokawa had been attending to Loke on one of the beds. The young woman had always been prone to further injury than her fellow Rangers. She was clumsy in a way, but she wasn't about it to let it kill her as she laid down flat, Kurokawa showing her the blade with which she was stabbed.

It was a kitchen knife. "Not impressed." she had groaned as she felt her head against the pillow, none of the others in use as Doc had rolled over on his chair.

"If you want your broken arm back I'd be more than willing to provide."

As far as injuries in Hitman went, all of them had been from Italica. Bannon's eye loss had been the most debilitating, however Loke herself had broken her arm and Doc had taken a rather large piece of shrapnel to his leg. Most of it had been easily repairable with a few setting and the insertion of morphogenic proteins had sped up the process easily enough, the injuries themselves not as bad as the pain would indicate.

Harris had often boasted in this lieu that he'd been the only man in the Special Task Force who'd been shot: a bolt having made a hole in his shoulder temporarily.

Battle scars were always attractive to have in some sort of unexplainable military mojo which kept soldiers aggressive and looking for ways to gain them.

At least now in Hitman, Bannon had a competitor with her scars with Emerson. Loke had wanted to very much catch up.

"No thanks Doc, but I doubt this is going to make me broke-dick?" Broke-dick being the slang for injuries that would send service members home.

He had looked down to her stomach and then her face with a raised eyebrow, "Why, you looking to get out?"

"Nah, just worrying that it might."

"If that knife pushed about a few centimeters in and to the left you would be shitting in a bag for the rest of your life, but nah, you're fit for service. I just want the bonding agents to set and your skin to close up."

"….Can I get a second opinion Sergeant Kurokawa?"

Kurokawa had precise hands, as per her role in the RCT, and that had led her to rolling the knife's handle over her hand and knuckles into a back hand grip, stabbing the knife into the wall over Loke's head, the woman shrinking into her seats as Doc looked on apathetically. "I'd say some bed rest is good for you."

"Yikes."

"Hey Masterson!" Itami had shouted up into the second floor, he putting down Sherry.

The man had reappeared after the very notable sound of him falling out of bed, his initial grogginess coming out making more than apparent that spending a night awake had not done him good. That and he was killing people. Still the sourness was written off his face after he saw the young child in High Imperial garb.

"Yeah Itami?"

"Kay says you're good with kids. Think you can look after her until Suguwara gets back?"

"You're not Lieutenant Itami?" Doc had chided as he reached into a jar of a hard vitamin supplement disguised as a lollipop, tossing it to the girl's way, she catching happily. She had no idea what it was as she looked it over. Most of the sweets at the garden party had garnered the same reaction around, especially ice cream. None could go back to chilled ice with fruit toppings now that ice cream had been on their tongue. They'd been a top seller in the PX. "It's candy, just take the wrapper off and lick."

"O-keh." she had readily agreed as she was transferred into Masterson's arms. She couldn't have been much older than nine.

"Din't your parents ever tell you to not fall in love with strangers?"

"You should be one to talk Cam." Loke had shot out.

Naturally in the presence of a child he had stuck his tongue out at his wounded soldier, Sherry imitating as Loke threw up her arms, unable to do anything else in her presence.

"My parents told me falling in love with strangers is okay as long as you _**make them**_ love you back." The way she had said it had been too happy to not make several people frown throughout the room in worry. "That is how you become senator!"

"I think Kay would like to hear that if he ever becomes a politician, anyway, want to see me do magic?"

"Mom says that all magic wielders will eventually become a threat to the state and wants to segregate them from the Empire. But okay, American."

"Uhhh. Alright. My name is Cam by the way."

"Cammy?"

"Just Cam."

The two had disappeared as the two bickered over his name, leaving Itami and the rest just simply staring at the stair way. Doc had shook his head, almost as if arguing with himself.

Kurokawa had dipped her head down to get a better lock at the older man's face. "Something on your mind Decker?"

He scrunched his face as he wiped it over with his hand, leaning back into his chair, those hands running over his bald head. "Nah, nothin'. Just reminded me of a girl that didn't come out of the cancer center when I did."

"Lost children are such a tragedy, don't you think?" Itami had prodded, beating back the impulse to smoke indoors. "Wherever I go nowadays I always see them because of what we're doing here."

Kurokawa had brushed back her bangs as she went back to her desk, opening up the medical logs she had been keeping and disdainfully looking at the age of some of the prostitutes. "You make it sound like we're to blame for them."

Doc had shook his own head as he went back to his own desk and laptop. "Mari, you used to work with the Red Cross in disaster relief. Do you blame yourself every time you lose a patient?"

"Am I supposed to feel good about it then?" there was a little bite back.

"Feel whatever you want, deal with it however you can, but never blame yourself unless you literally slit the patient's throat. If I blamed myself for every mistake I made in my time practicing medicine I wouldn't have been fit as a medical professional."

"God Doc you're such a serious old fart. You want a hug?" Loke had teased the older man. He waved her off.

"No."

"That's why we Hitmen loves you." Loke had come out of college into the service much like Itami. Something of a sorority girl without a dream; no path for her out of college. This hadn't been to say that she hadn't been smart, however she had been more emotional and headstrong than anything else.

"I don't quite understand you man." Itami had pulled up a seat and leaned back. He figured he'd give himself some time off from doing nothing. Doc turned around.

"Doc is a very hard man to understand." Loke had been issued meds, which had been perhaps why she was a little uppity and playing with her hair.

"Usually on purpose."

"But, seriously Doc, you could've been on… how do you Americans say? A "six figure" salary if you stayed civilian. You're not like Bannon or Masterson. You and Kay, even Ramirez up there, you guys had careers and jobs. Nice careers and jobs. Not all this complicated stuff."

"Itami Youji on a six figure salary? Sounds scary."

"Thanks Kurokawa, but still, why?"

"We all have our reasons for joining up, Lieutenant Itami, you have yours, we have ours."

"I suppose I wasn't exactly thinking straight when I joined the military in the hopes of doing nothing then…"

"Ah, Kay was the same way. He joined up just as the Korean War was ending… timed it so he didn't think he'd be deployed into combat."

"Only one of us have seen Korea…" Kurokawa commented. There were a select few JSDF personnel in the Special Task Force that did. They had been the JSDF's first veterans of a foreign conflict in an offensive capacity. They had drawn their first blood in Korea, and that had done something to Japanese nationalism that no one had expected.

Enough so that Japan had been the one skirting Chinese airspace and not vice versa.

"Well, thinking back on it, I feel a bit guilty. Irresponsible." There once was a time where Itami had spent countless weeks reading over manga volumes and doing nothing but analyzing them, taking them into his mind, and living within them (if not arguing with other users on 2chan about them), but that was where he had always wanted to be. Not as a serious soldier.

Doc had appeared at his side, going over to a set up printer after he sent an order for some of his data to be spit out. "Hey, you're serving your country. No one can take that away from you. Besides, job is a job. You gotta pay alimony someway, right?"

"Eh. Guess I'll have to be who I have to be."

The second visitor of note that day had glided in, Tomita having opened the door for her outside, he being posted in front of the house with all his imposing form telling the locals to not mind unless they had business.

"Afternoon, Miss Mizari." Doc had waved toward the angel as Itami had looked her up and down. He had heard Kurata and Tomita talking about her and he had believed everything they said now that the beauty was before him.

One of his squad had been an amateur photographer too, and he had squeezed off more than a few shots of this one for several of the men to squeeze themselves off over later. He didn't deny that it had been happening up and down the Special Task Force.

 _"Oh wow."_ Loke had dazed out at the visage of the seemingly holy figure, Mizari standing there, more than making her presence known, a natural glow coming off of her that painted the faces of all their in some peaceful light.

She fluttered her wings once, a slight gust moving through the room as she did it. "Hello Doctor, Kurokawa."

"Mari, can you handle her? I have to run through the STD reports before I shoot them off to Arnus…." Kurokawa had given a thumbs up to Doc as he realized what he had said. Arnus had been an odd name, all things considered. From the Japanese point of view Arnus had been spelled Alnus, and Chuka's name had been Tuka. Either had worked he had figured as he walked up stairs.

He couldn't help but feel that taking these reports of the locals had been a bit illicit in its nature, but he hadn't been one to argue with an officer above major (especially with as much grief he and Kurokawa had given him about Chuka).

Mizari's footsteps had been almost non-existent, as if she really was an angel like the old books had talked about, however Itami as a self-respecting male figure hadn't been entirely focused on her footsteps as she passed him, drawing her own hand across his chin as she disappeared into the privacy divider Kurokawa drew.

More private time for him then.

"Who's the handsome man outside Kurokawa?"

The privacy cloak hadn't covered Loke's bed, so she had naturally heard as she leaned in, all the women doing so. "Is he?" she asked.

All Kurokawa could do was smile as Loke was left to her lucid thoughts of the topic.

"What brings you here Mizari?" she pulled up a stool for her, which she had sat.

"I ran out of those pills you people signed for me." Which had meant she was using them. "I have the money to buy more from the PX, however I need a prescription, they told me. A note like the Doctor wrote for me last time."

During her time here Bannon had been especially sympathetic to not only the slaves, but the prostitutes she had seen. For what reasons Kurokawa could only assume the worst. She would most likely die if she tried to confirm those suspicions by asking either her or Masterson.

However she felt the same for them, if not on the personal level as Bannon seemed to have.

She didn't hesitate to take out her own pad and writer her signature underneath the prescription. "Here."

Mizari had taken it gingerly. "Oh thank you." she had ran her thumb over the imprint Kurokawa signature made. "What a convenient thing this pill promises. I wouldn't be able to work if I was pregnant… then again, some of my coworkers were dreaming about mating with the men here."

"No one has, right?"

"To my knowledge, yes. Still I don't understand how you women are able to work with all of them around all the time, knowing men how they are, of course."

That had been a question the US Military had to ask themselves when the gender wall had gone down and women were able to take on combat positions in the service. The validity of the concerns ranging from physical limitations to fraternization to simple health issues had been put up and down the board in debates and trials in the various branches and held up to the objective light and it was fought against for reasons both right and wrong: liberal, conservative, and progressive.

The women that could had been able to pave the way in general for a greater female involvement to take place in the US military over time: more specifically those who proved themselves able to be held to an equal standards the male service members could. However the issue of gender had melted away entirely when entire divisions had evaporated in the Middle East and America learned how to work with the subject as Russia and Israel did.

The enemy didn't care for gender of the Americans at that point. A dead American was a dead American, and the draft that came to fight those wars against those people had been without discrimination of gender.

That had been how America was able to bridge that gender divide: The Iranians, the North Koreans, the Islamic State, Afghanis, and terrorists the world over had destroyed it for them to the tune of nearly four hundred thousand American combat casualties. A quarter of that number had been female.

The proof had come in the war itself, and it was proven today with every life taken by Bannon, Loke, and the rest of the females in Hitman had fought in the Special Region. The act of killing, the propensity to wage war, was without gender.

Lists of casualties, lists of awards given out, the lists of American criminals of war, had slowly become ranges without divide between man and woman.

"You usually don't sleep with your coworkers." was Loke's answer, and that had been enough for Mizari as she pulled out her pipe.

"Hasn't stopped me."

Kurokawa had looked wearily at the pipe. Mizari had noticed as she lit and took her first blow. "You aren't going to tell me to quit smoking, are you? I heard the Doctor tell me that."

The nurse had shook her head no. "I thought you needed it."

Mizari opened her two eyes and tilted her head at Kurokawa and how knowing she sounded. "So you know what it's like for me?"

"Nope," she smiled as she tilted her head in turn. "But I couldn't do your work if my senses weren't clouded."

Mizari's eyes twitched, Loke hid under a pillow, and Kurokawa simply kept smiling. "Tch," she had clicked with her mouth annoyed. "I hate snotty women."

"I don't want to be liked to begin with."

Faces stretched, tongues were put out, but it had been all in good jest as the two women had realized what kind of faces they were giving each other.

The angel giggled. "Oh, such naughty girls we are."

"We're so much alike." Kurokawa had agreed as Loke had peeked out from under her pillow, Mizari taking one last drag and blowing it at the nurse.

"I'll be off now. I have to work."

The very utterance of those words had made Kurokawa tighten her hands reflexively, as if she had been holding onto invisible strings keeping Mizari from going.

"Mizari." she had said strongly, making the angel stop and look over her shoulder before she could part the divide. "Have you heard of the Arnus-Italica Living Community? The Corridor?" as had been the official name for the giant main street ranging from Italica to Arnus and had sported an uncountable amount of businesses, residential housings, and modern facilities that supported Italica's agricultural prowess at that point into Operation Odyssey Ultimatum.

Mizari had heard the rumors, as did most of the Imperial Capital. It had been no wonder the Empire had put travel restrictions outside the Capital and the other settlements.

The rumors of a land of hope and dreams; safety as provided by a fair and just people, for the people, regardless of species, age, or race.

"It sounds like heaven, but I don't have the papers or the ability to go. I heard that community was highly competitive to live in, and the only special skills I have… is, well…" she flipped her hair as she took a drag. "I'm a whore."

"But if you had a connection-"

The divide had been parted and Kurokawa had forgotten who had been on the other side. Itami had been who he had needed to be, and he stayed silent as Kurokawa's version of Itami had spoken in her head as the real one simply looked down on her with a gaze she had not seen from him often. A purely angry, expecting gaze.

An actual gaze of a man his age in the position he filled.

 _"What now Kurokawa? Did you mean to say, "If you had a connection at Arnus Hill, would you go?" What are you trying to do? These women support themselves in the life they live nowm and our orders prohibit us from taking that away from them. Even if you disagree with the orders and act out of good will for them, are you ready to be responsible for them? As you were ready to be for Chuka?"_

 _"Dammit lieutenant I am ready for Chuka! But- for these women, if I take them to Arnus maybe we can reeducate-"_

 _"She'll end up at the street at night regardless."_ and the Special Task Force would not have it.

This dialogue had been entirely internal in Kurokawa's head, but Itami had known, and he had simply held the divider open for Mizari like a gentleman as he overheard the conversation.

"Such a polite man." she had kissed the bottom of Itami's cheek as she went on, leaving only the Special Task Force to fight their own moral battles.

"As Captain Emerson says, their time will come."

Kurokawa had held her chin down, avoiding eye contact as she had relegated herself to how Itami had coldly, rightly thought. "Roger…"

* * *

The two medics had stood by the window as the night came, having greeted Emerson and a beyond tired Bannon and her Team One along with Blackburn. Apparently they had made great progress with the Embassy, but it had mostly been cleanup work from the battle and relocating civilians on top of dealing with the Italian's screaming from the dungeon.

 _"Give him another two weeks."_ had been Emerson's response to that.

Those heavy words from such a young man had brought Doc out to open the window and pull out a cigarette and start smoking, his burnt match under his heel.

"I heard you got into a little staring contest with your CO from Talia, Sergeant Kurokawa." he said as he had blew from his nose, eliciting an odd look from the other medic. She disapproved.

"I heard, or well, I think you disapprove of Emerson locking a man in a basement with rotting corpses."

"Hmph. He's a bit young for having actions like that be on his soul. A little too early for evil to seep into his heart."

"So you know evil?"

"Very intimately." he took another drag, rubbing his free hand again over his bald head. "When I had cancer, I had to realize this: I would have give up everything to kill it. It was either cancer or me. I had to fight years with that sentimentality. Every pill, every iota of radiation, every single cut in my breast was something I tolerated, even if it might've killed me too. Because cancer was evil. _**Evil was within me.**_ And when I had to face evil I had to face myself, destroy myself, and had to accept I would have to sacrifice everything I had to drive it out of me."

"You've been fighting evil all your life then?" she knew how young Doc had once been.

"That is why I became a soldier, a Ranger. Because I know evil when I see it." he spat out the window, knowing what he saw when he had a glance at Emerson's eyes. "When evil surrounds you Mari, what will you do? Be a soldier? Or be an idealist? A medic?"

"Itami tells me to do nothing at all… You got a stick to spare?"

"Yeah, here." A stick and a zippo had been put out, Kurokawa seizing both as she had, for the first time in her life, put the cigarette between her lips and lit the end. Her first bout of coughing afterward had been predictable, if not making Doc take another drag himself.

" _Hyuck- huck, fhcuck!_ " Doc's patting her back had come with picking up the dropped stick from her mouth and placing it in between her fingers. "First time." she explained.

"It happens."

"Yeah, I guess… I didn't know you smoked Decker."

" _ **I don't.**_ " he had stubbed out his cigarette on the window frame and turned away back to his desk as Kurokawa had been left with her own stick burning, her lipstick on the white and very much considering Mizari's own reasoning to smoke. She figured she could use it too. Just this once.

The banging on the door had made Doc go for his Luger with snappiness befit a Ranger, Kurokawa getting her 220 and Kurata pumping his KSG shotgun.

The cigarette once again fell to the floor and stayed there.

"Shit, again?!" Masterson had bumped down the stairs in his underwear, an 870 being one of only two guns he had shown off. The other had been in his underwear. Seyton and Samnu had delivered Sherry back home. They'd been a recognized pair of beasts on Sadera Hill now that Emerson had taken them under his wing. They had come back promptly and been hanging out in the basement with Blackburn, their cold bloodedness lending much to their behavior at night.

Loke could appreciate her sergeant looking like that, however she had been still in bed, her knees against her chest as she had went for her MP5 at the foot of her cot.

"Dammit Cam of all the places to sleep buck naked it's here?" Doc had simply cocked back the Luger as the two medics had taken positions on either side of the door, Kurokawa using her spare arm to slowly open up the door a crack before Doc had simply thrown the door open inward and stood gun up.

Kurokawa had opened her mouth first in surprise. "Mizari?"

She hadn't been alone as Doc lowered his pistol, what used to be an eyebrow on his face raised. "Something…wrong?"

Doc could put a name on most of the faces behind Mizari and her wings, but he wasn't exactly proud at the fact. All of them had been prostitutes.

"...A big guy from this house didn't call for you, did he?" Doc had anticipated the best answer his mind could come up with as Mizari had looked at him dumbfounded as to who he had been referring to, looking instead at Kurokawa.

"We have to talk now!"

Kurokawa hadn't exactly been in a position to say no as she saw the several dozen deep crowd of women.

That ruckus at night had brought a lot of attention from inside the house, Masterson quickly going to find pants, a door leading to the basement in the back of the room going up as Blackburn popped out with two other, albeit more familiar, prostitutes.

He had nothing to say as the group of scantily clad humanoids had scurried in underneath his newly installed artificial lighting, Seyton and Samnu pushing him out as the front doors were closed.

Doc had gone back to his desk and squared himself away, "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

"Yeah? I'd do this for free." Kurata had heard Doc's complaints and thought anything but.

Kurata had something going on with a cat girl from Myui's maid cohort, and it was no secret he did fancy himself some literal tail, so this hadn't been a bad surprise to him in the middle of the night as he held his KSG at ease, many of those women marveling alone at the unnatural light that the installed fixtures provided, Mizari basking in it befit of whatever angel she had been.

Canine, feline, avian, and lizard, there had been all that and more, the biggest and most exotic being a woman whose lower body had been entirely that of a slithering snake.

The stand out to Doc however had been the bunny, one half of her left ear chopped off it seemed. The information regarding the Imperial conquest on the Bunny Warriors had been disseminated by analysts back at Camp Omega, and given first hand testimony that the vaunted leader had been alive in the walls of the Imperial Royalty another complication had existed on top of the peace negotiations. That being the possibility of other nations coming forward from the Special Region with a case against the Empire.

Not many bunnies had been left in the world, and each one had been a rarity, a survivor, of Imperial expansion that Ginza had seen firsthand.

However as Kurokawa had fought with herself earlier no one got special treatment.

"Mmm. That's a really nice light, Kurokawa." Mizari had reached out as if she could touch a ray of light.

"What's going on Mizari?"

Loke had opened up her bed as sitting space for the packed crowd, an avian girl coming to sit directly beside her, she having a blanket thrown over her. Her stench had been a stench of something less than appealing done to her, Loke holding her hands over her should as the avian shook and shuddered.

"Quite frankly, we know what you, what the Father of Sin is trying to do here in Akusho, and in the Capital, however we don't care about that and we haven't said anything about it. That's the secret to survival here, after all: keeping our mouths shut. So understand what we're telling you is important to our survival."

The girl in Loke's arms had sputtered. "P-please! Help us!"

Kurokawa glanced toward her and then back to Mizari urgently, Mizari nodding. "That girl is Tyuwaru, one of our own, she told me she needed to get to you people as soon as possible."

Blackburn had shuffled his way in next to Kurokawa, his silence that of being unsure of what had been transpiring, however Tyuwaru had looked to him as the supposed man of command. Doc had been attending to some scratches and injuries from bumps and trips on the way here, Masterson reappearing with his shotgun, tossing Doc his SCAR.

"Need help with crime or something?" Loke had asked, squeezing her shoulders even more.

"No, no. I've got shivers. Every single spot on my body is just telling me to fly away from here."

Khan had been incessantly barking upstairs, the loud aggressive sound making many of the prostitutes unsure if they wanted to actually step back into the Devil's House.

"What do you-"

"Sheesh! You're too slow!" Mizari had flown out her arm, taking Blackburn by his collar and bringing him close. "I'm saying if you help us now, we'll be yours from now on!"

"Wha- what? Look Miss Misery, I'm a taken man, but please elaborate or we can't help you." Khan had continued to bark on and on and on, Peters yelling at the dog now. "And someone shut that hound up!"

"In my homeland there's a volcano, and whenever it's about to erupt the earth shakes! It's in my bones to know _**something big is coming**_!"

Nutt had come down stairs as the rest of Hitman and RCT3 had roused awake, Itami and Emerson making their way down. Emerson's presence had made some of the prostitutes kneels and draw blood again, but it had at least cleared the sightlines for the people who needed to talk to talk as he told them not to do such.

"Captain Emerson, Lieutenant Itami, me and some of the guys have lived through quite a few earthquakes in Cali, this entire place will go down to the ground if Khan's barking says anything about it." the man had darted his eyes across the room, looking at the room, thinking even further out to the capital and Akusho. Tonight, he knew, people would die.

Emerson had looked over to Itami with that revelation.

"We have to go warn Pina." Itami had echoed Emerson's own inner thoughts. "So close to the peace negotiations too. Dammit." he had said through his hand, rubbing his cheeks down in frustration.

The seriousness in Nutt's and Itami's eyes had been infectious. All the Japanese there had seen the earthquakes, the tsunamis, the disaster that had been the Fukushima Exclusion Zone expanding after more earthquakes that had destroyed the nuclear site and putting doubts in nuclear energy as the world's oil industry destroyed itself.

"I want everyone to gear up." Blackburn had shouted out into the crowd and down below to his Seabees, the Naval men immediately bracing the tunnels. "I'll put a call to Camp Omega and Camp Italica… is the major at the embassy location now with RCT1?"

"Affirmative."

"Hey Seyton, Samnu! Hold down the fort, will ya?! I've got the machetes in the box marked knives if you need 'em."

The two scaly voices had called back from the cellar. "Got it!" they were slated to become the PB force commander in Akusho.

"Itami, you're with me and Hitman. RCT3 hold position here; get people into the streets and hunker down until it hits."

Ramirez only shook his head as he gotten himself to the door, trying to ignore who he had to push through. "Same shit! Different day!"

" _Oorah?_ "

" _ **Oorah!**_ "

"Sergeant Kuribayashi, Sergeant Tomita, Sergeant Kurokawa load up and then on me. We're going to the capital."

"Yes sir!"

The rest of RCT3 had been silent, standing still as they all saw the action happen: the preparation for a disaster. Blackburn hadn't been a man of inaction, and he didn't like it happening in his eyesight. "What're you ladies looking for?! Move!" they had all gotten their gear on upstairs in clatter as Blackburn told the prostitutes to wait for them, going over to the radio to Arnus and prepping his voice. "This is Wallstreet to all responding actuals. I repeat, this is Wallstreet to all responding actuals on this net."

"This is Assassin Actual to Wallstreet. Say status. Over."

"Wallstreet. Be advised I've got multiple reports of imminent seismic activity, request possible Medevac flight to be on station, over."

"…Say again Blackburn?"

"I'm saying we've got an earthquake incoming."

* * *

 _ **Falmart - Arnus Hill - Camp Omega - Joint Marine/JSDF Command**_

* * *

Six knocks against Colonel Pierce's room in the Arnus CP building and he had known it was Sevson. Another six knocks and he knew it had been urgent. Pierce had been a deep and messy sleeper, and perhaps he had been guilty of abusing his position as the second highest ranking officer in the Special Region to requisition a larger bed for him to roll around on.

Perhaps it had been tossing and turning from dreams of a Korea long ago; his own personal demons unrelated with the military and who he was as a person: a farm boy from Kansas with the dream of military in his eye. He'd left a lot behind in Kansas: family, a good life, a just life. A life he could not live anymore because he had not been the Adrian Pierce that left home at the peak of the Iraq War to join the ranks of another of America's lost generation as the forever wars had started in the Middle East.

It hadn't been Iraq, or Afghanistan, or Iran that changed him so dramatically. He had fought in those wars which buried America's soul and body for the rest of time. That was a burden shared by all Americans at that point. It was Korea that had changed him, that made him one of the only men able to come to this Special Region and speak on behalf of not just the American military, his Marines, but of America and her attitude itself.

He knew war. A war had known him as he made the decision to not reinforce Seoul, but to push into North Korea: undercutting the entire advance and becoming renowned in the US Military as the man who saved the province.

Only after he had been isolated in the middle of a foreign land, outnumbered by millions, outgunned and outmanned, and yet proceeded to kill them all until the Allied forces brought the frontline to them.

In that he knew what Specialist Valentine had felt: he had been awarded a Medal of Honor, even when he had made the decision for his men to die a world away from home against an inhuman enemy.

He felt wrong for taking it, but he had lived with it.

Perhaps his old experiences had been what the Pentagon was counting on in this Special Region.

He had rolled himself off his bed, boxers and t-shirt on. At a crisp forty three years young he hadn't appreciated being awoken in the middle of the night.

Though Sevson would always have his reasons.

"Colonel Pierce." he called for his commander through the door. He had croaked out some guttural noise, making known he was awake as he had thrown on his desert pattern uniform quick.

He put in his fake teeth from their moist container. A North Korean had beat his teeth in with a shovel years ago (before he returned the favor and then some), these had been the replacements. "Yeah, yeah, come in Isaiah."

The door was opened and Pierce had gotten his cap over his head as he turned on the lights to the room. Sevson had been in full combat kit and uniform. The way he had stood in the doorway had made Pierce justify getting his thigh holster and cocking back his .45. "Sir there might be a situation on our hands."

A vest and helmet with Pierce's name had been tossed his way, the man sliding it on.

"Lieutenant Commander Blackburn reported to both Hazama and me that we might have incoming seismic activity from rather reliable sources."

"Well, dip."

"Dip indeed."

Lieutenant General Hazama had appeared behind Sevson, he himself just also roused awake by Yanagida, the two Americans throwing up salute as he had stopped behind Sevson. "Heard the news, colonel?" he saluted them down.

"Yeah."

"Outside the HQ in five. Let my troops handle this, we've been through a few of these things already."

For once Pierce and Sevson didn't worry. The Japanese had been premier at dealing with earthquakes given their homeland. Pierce rumbled, "I know you guys have, just keep me posted Lieutenant General."

The two had waited for the footsteps of the JSDF personnel to fade out down the hallway before they continued. "I think Godfather would appreciate us sending a notice to him, don't want to see the Gate have any damage." Pierce had said tiredly. Most of his words nowadays had been said tiredly.

"I don't enjoy the idea of being trapped on this side if that Gate cuts off for some reason."

"Yeah, well, we got the contingencies and the supplies in place at Camp Kilgore. We'll be able to all live happily until the end of our days if that happens to be the case here."

"I want my life to end peacefully in a hospital in Hoboken surrounded by my family sir, not Rome."

"That's not what you told me in Korea."

Sevson had smiled, leading his colonel and friend out the door and towards the situation room. "True enough."

* * *

The situation room with all of its monitors and computers on one side the room and its operators on the other hadn't been a well-lit place: mostly of a moody blue tone which kept eyes squinted at screens and headaches constant, however the headaches had come from somewhere else that night as men and women rushed delivering reports and orders across the radios to an exploding Special Task Force.

This had been exemplified by the fact the entire situation room had been transferred over to a thousand laptops and put outside on a compilation of hastily put together tables and a few generators, many of the operators having to stand as soldiers from both the GSDF and the Marines rushed about, deploying into the Corridor and clearing them to the empty, unoccupied clearings on either side of it.

The Warlords had been taken out of their defensive positions and escorted the groups out, all of them save Warlord 1-2.

Warlord 1-1 had been the first M1A3 spec Abrams to come rolling out, A5 features having been more or less jury rigged onto it on top of the A3 base which had upset the Japanese greatly. They didn't like the fact there had been an Abrams with laser point defenses, sloped turret armor reminiscent of the old Leopard 2A5s, and the still highly expensive and maintenance heavy hydrogen fuel cells.

All this, and the Japanese could also not stand the fact an offensive laser weapon system had been on the AC-130.

"Colonel, Mobius and Rapier squadrons are asking for orders, as is Reaper." Reaper had been the call sign for the AC-130U that had not seen a shot fired from anger from itself yet. Not even in practice.

"Tell Noelle to take off and stay on station, have all other squadrons coordinate with him to hold over the Corridor and report on damage from above. Tell them to get their external tanks on too, no telling how long we're gonna have them up there."

"Yes colonel."

"Also I want a medevac chopper flight deployed shy of the capital, just in case."

"Yes sir, colonel."

"You seem rather calm, Adrian." Sevson had crossed his arms as he stood over his Colonel. They'd been long time friends at this point, a bond formed through war and willingness to follow orders during a Korea long ago. Needless to say Pierce had trusted Sevson's judgement that went above ranking and procedure.

The man held his chin in hand as he turned his long greyish haired head toward Sevson, shrugging. "This is the first time we've been in this room and it hasn't been a combat situation, Isaiah, and I doubt that this quake will cause some civil unrest in our area of jurisdiction."

"Then why'd you order all the Marines to load up for a combat mission?"

"Remember when we hoarded the Nork prisoners out of Sariwon?"

"The ones we had to bluff?" By that time in the Korean War it had been about five days after Pierce and Sevson had been reinforced and the allied forces had pushed the frontline to their forward position (which had meant out of South Korea). There had been barely enough ammo to go around, so much so that one of the teams tasked with taking prisoners to the back line had to do it with no ammo in their M4s.

The prisoners had been civilians and the local militia men still loyal to the dead Kim Jung Un, soldiers who had still wanted to fight.

One Marine had lost his gun to one of those men, but thankfully he couldn't use it for any harm due to the lack of ammo. Though when none of the other Marines could shoot said man the local militia had turned on not only them but on the surrendering civilian in a beat down that the Marines could not possibly stop before it had been too late.

Pierce had been worried about a repeat happening in some form.

It wasn't for their own safety, but for the civilians.

 _"This is Mobius One, taxiing for take-off. Rapier I want your flight to escort the medevac birds and push toward the Capital and stay on station until notified."_ A little bit of Noelle's Slavic accent had pushed through.

 _"Affirmative."_

" _Mobius two through five, I need you on my ass for the night, we're skimming Corridor airspace and I need everyone Christmas Tree. Six and seven, hold over the airfield and escort Reaper. Gentlemen we are Playtime for the rest of the night."_ his chatter had blended in with the rest, coming from one of the radios, Christmas Tree designating that he wanted his aircraft to have their external lights on from here on out and Playtime being the brevity for how long they were to be flying.

Just a glance over to the right and the command staff had seen the Hornets and Harriers take off, the rumble of their engines almost like the forebearers of an earthquake themselves. Sevson squinted his eyes at their wingtips.

"They're deploying loaded. Sidewinders."

"Lelei told me that dragons are recorded to go haywire during things like this according to the old records. Just in case."

"Roger. Where is she anyway?"

"She was helping evacuate Myui and her refugees. Rory is on our side as well with Chuka."

"I've got all my men ready." Hazama had said from his table, helicopters buzzing above. "Wish we had this kind of preparation for the typhoons back in '23!" 2023 had been a rather bad year for Japan in terms of natural disasters. Earthquakes, the worst recorded typhoons in history, and immediately following the next year the Korean War, it had helped set the stage for a new JSDF generation.

Here it had made vehicles run through the streets with loudspeakers warning for "earth shakes" to many of the residents concern and humor.

"Me and you both, lieutenant general!" Sevson had yelled back, Pierce giving a thumbs up as he joined the commander.

Blackburn had been looking around as if lost, but in reality he had just been overwhelmed. "Personally I'm a tad skeptical of Blackburn's sources."

Hazama crossed his arms as he scratched his moustache, several of his lieutenants echoing the same doubts. "Oh, trust me, the animals always know."

Major Higaki had still carried doubts, adjusting his glasses. "I mean, yeah, some of the beasts are acting up, but it might not be anything bad, we don't know where the epicenter is going to be if there is one."

The major had jinxed it as Pierce opened his mouth, feeling it in his bones as he instinctively grabbed onto both the lieutenant general and his own major, several of the more sensitive to the earth losing their breath and immediately going to the ground in a kneel or prone as the vibrations beneath their feet did not cease and evolved.

People were slow to realize what had been happening even if they prepared for it, the command staff gripping their tables as the civilian screaming started in the distance. Soldiers falling to the ground and planting their rifles in the dirt as posts.

 _ **"Everyone hold on!"**_

* * *

 _ **Five minutes earlier**_

 _ **Outside the Corridor**_

* * *

A piece of the San Andreas Fault had cracked in 2020. Some of the Marines from Pendleton had remembered it very vividly as, for a month, the entire western seaboard was evacuated in the fears that the "big one" was coming.

The destruction of LA and California had been Wilbur's on the job training as a young man on vacation in the Golden State. That was how he had been able to get a job as a surveyor with BP at so young, and it was also how he had a place to go after he had exiled himself from BP after saving his childhood home.

It was also why he had understood the significance of one of Rory's bird like MPs having shocked herself beyond reasoning and collaborated with RCT3's and Hitman's report on incoming seismic tremors.

He also hadn't been the only one who recognized what earthquakes did within his assigned section. He had caused them before.

As the Warlords had been more and more visited in Italica as monuments, subjects of pilgrimages to some of the citizens of the Corridor, security issues had been raised and each of the Warlords had an infantry squad assigned to them. Wilbur had found himself in command of not only a tank, but also of a Marine fireteam.

In that fireteam had been Lumaban. An immigrant from the Philippines who fully understood the nature of a cracked earth from the tsunamis and the earthquakes she had endured as a child in South East Asia. Not only that, she had been in Iraq, in Iran and Afghanistan, as the weaponized "rods from god" that had been the US military program in space, had roared and tore the earth wide open.

"Wilbur!" she yelled to the get man's attention as he had worn his cape even now, but with purpose: to have the people recognize them and to calm them down as words and rumors from the Marines and the JSDF spoke of the Earth shaking horribly.

When the word had gotten out that an earthquake was predicted to come, the Corridor was evacuated, and all the people in Italica and Arnus respectively had been shoved to the cleared, undeveloped fields flanking the land.

"What?!" the Englishman had yelled back as he kept twisting and twirling, his shouts in his less than well practiced lingua franca not at all helping the situation.

Lumaban had brushed her black hair back behind her ears, damning it as she and her fireteam had struggled to keep the massive crowd off of Kingdom Come as it was driven out to escort these people and provide security.

She had tossed him her breaching shotgun, the man shaking his head once as he knew what to do with it, getting a bird scaring blank from his own kit and loading it in before taking it within both hands and aiming up.

The sound of thunder had cracked out as entire crowds recoiled from Wilbur's boom, his section's reaction of silence reverberating throughout the crowds ushered out of Italica.

"This is Assassin 4-3 to all Marine fireteams! Use blanks! Don't need collateral coming down later!" she had barked into her radio knowingly as one by one, and throughout the Corridor, great booms had been going out into the dark of night as Arnus Base and Camp Kilgore shined brilliantly with lighting unseen in this world yet.

"Perla!" Wilbur yelled in the silence, the woman turning around and catching her breaching device again, only to shake her head tiredly at the crowds.

"What the hell Wilbur, I thought these people would listen to you." she had spited as she had finally lowered her M16 from those once roaring crowds who had wanted to clamber on top of 1-3.

"Yeah? Coming from the woman who's trying to make a church choir group on her off time." Wilbur had spited her sarcastically as he kept his vision dashing around, looking for a particular dark elf with great concern.

Colonel Pierce had made it very clear that teaching anything of cultural note to the natives of the Special Region had been off limits, at least as far as American values was concerned, the fear being they would class with Japan's conservative views as the island nation tried its best to keep integrating this world from Arnus out, one word, one piece of yen, one lesson at a time.

That was one of the sins of one of the greatest empires on Earth: of the British Empire, and how it tried to force Christianity on its people. But yet, here, Lumaban had not forgotten her faith, and would not discard its values when teaching these people as the Marines did at the classrooms of Italica and Arnus.

Not when she saw the poor, the poverished, the weak and weary.

She had caught herself, though, almost speaking of her God, her saviors, to these people openly during a class she had helped managed. She knew better.

Still, the comfort she had found in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost had many ways to touch people in need, and as she had hummed one idle day, she remembered song and hymn was one of those.

Her sessions in front of Warlord 1-3 had been of teaching the tune, the hum and ahs, of Christian tunes. Not the words, but just the melody. One day, she had hoped, that the words would come to them naturally.

Her CO had no problem with this as it calmed the ears of those busy residents of Italica and the Corridor.

And so they knew the tune of the hymn Lumaban used to calm herself in this busy night, preparing for calamity further as Wilbur had finally cried out the name of who he was looking for: "Yao! Yao!"

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Amazing Grace**_

 _ **As whistled by Sergeant Perla Lumaban, 7**_ _ **th**_ _ **Marine Expeditionary Division**_

* * *

Wilbur had jumped off the tank, his pistol out as he parted that sea of citizens and dared them to see what he would do for one person. His pistol had been out, and the crowds, for the first time, had a gun pointed at them by a member of the Special Task Force. From either Lumaban or Wilbur, from either the Marines or the GSDF who had been hoarding them out like some horror show comprised of "on short notice" and "incoming calamity".

It was a new feeling, a feeling of some sort of betrayal that glazed past their mind for only a second as Wilbur disappeared into it, following a voice he literally could hear above them all.

When he had come back he had been gripping a dark elf.

Lumaban had given him a weary glare, a questioning look as he pressed back and put himself on top of 1-3. He had answered unsaid words. "She's my responsibility." and that had been only proven with how tight the two had held each other.

The shaking, the grinding of the earth, the incoming rumble and quake that Wilbur had known very well.

"Hey Perla!"

"What?!" the two locked eyes as they felt it start, the initiation of a natural disaster. Perla had felt the very dirt shift in two directions as she said her prayers.

"Remember the Big One?!"Wilbur asked, almost cheekily, daring the world as he looped his arm around both Yao and a handle on his tank.

She nodded as she dropped to the ground, bracing against Kingdom Come and her rifle. "Here it comes boys! _**Everyone down!**_ "

* * *

 _ **Two minutes earlier**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital – Akusho – Three minutes from Sadera Hill at full gallop**_

* * *

"So, tell me private, how the hell do you west coasters know when it's coming?!"

"Sergeant, I ain't in the business for predicting earthquakes, just knowing how to survive them!"

Masterson had yelled over his shoulder to Nutt, over the rushing madness of us all as we galloped down the cobblestone, the three RCT members having taken to riding shotgun with the three Hitmen leads. In truth he hadn't minded Shino taking his rear position as much as Bannon did with her unnoticed glaring.

There was no time for such petty squabbles in a world about to be, dramatically speaking, broke in half.

Foulke, Emerson's horse, hadn't complained with leading the pack of ten horses, two people to a horse, it had just been like old times out during the conquests. His new master had also been a little less overbearing, the black steed having a personality of its own that Emerson suspected had been formed by dealing with the man who had once rode him.

However he had been antsy, indeed most of the other horses had been, trying to tear themselves free of their reins. When Hitman, Itami and his soldiers came to saddle up, they were difficult to say the least.

Riding hard however had seemed to put all that instinctual anxiousness away it seemed.

Like the riders of old, like Paul Revere himself as Masterson had more than obviously howled into the night, yelling of another Empire and how they had been coming by sea.

"Shut the fuck up Cam! Less talking, more riding!"

"Trust me sir, I don't want to be stuck here when the buildings start coming down!"

If San Francisco had collapsed partly to great damage, the Imperial Capital wouldn't weather it even half as well. It was doubtful even the Special Task Force could do the damage that nature could. Still it was something they would have to deal with, judging on how panicked the humanoids and the beasts had been acting as they passed them on the streets. Death was a constant, and it seemed to follow in their wake. They worried about the people, the slaves, the survival of the Empire, but they could not do anything. In a battle of man versus nature, nature always won in the end.

How close death followed had been to the second as a great gust of wind had cut overhead. as the horses had stopped themselves almost immediately, some of Hitmen being thrown off in a great clatter of stone, batterings and brusings coming as their forms against the ground felt the all too intimate vibrations of an earth about to be torn apart.

" _ **Everyone against the ground! Now!**_ Stay center of the street!" Emerson had yelled as he scrambled off of his side, Foulke laying in the center on his own side as Emerson flopped over him, Itami following along with the rest. Those who could at least had followed suit. Being thrown from their horses in full kit had not been kind to some. Not when they hit the ground shoulders, arms, bent legs first as their own groans of pain had been hidden by the coming rumbling of an upset earth. Itami had barely the time to slide on his helmet before the first pieces of building started hitting the ground in wooden explosions.

Wooden shrapnel had erupted all around as the stone beneath them had shifted and threatened to give way to hell seemingly,

The vibrations wouldn't stop like a maddening headache that rattled every bone in their body.

The cacophony of a thousand bricks, building materials, stone and the worth of the Empire's architecture all colliding and collapsing on top of each other.

"Son of a fucking bitch! _ **My leg's snapped!**_ "

Ten seconds to half a minute. That was the usual average for how long an earthquake lasted. However an earthquake had been like a battle, a firefight, and all of them knew their minds had played tricks on them as it kept on going and going and going threatening to drive them mad.

Down the street a building had collapsed into the street, the shaking having thrown it one way in a wave of dust and debris that blew its way down toward Hitman and RCT3.

All they could do was bury their faces in their arms or put on their goggles and weather the incoming storm. When the earthquake would end the destruction of the Imperial Capital would follow like dominos falling.

Nutt had been more than knowing when an earthquake stopped to yell out. "Alright! Alright! We're clear unless we get aftershocks!" he had been more than eager to move seeing as his arm had been dislocated after being thrown, he hiding under his fallen horse as it happened.

"Sitrep!?" Emerson had yelled as he stood up, the dust having kicked up enough that it blinded him more or less. Itami had grabbed onto his leg to pull himself up, running over to his RCT3 detachment to help them up.

"Team One we good?!" Bannon had coughed through her radio. "Team Two?!"

"1-4, I'm inop!" the pained yelling of Black, he having been the man with a broken leg.

"2-6, is no good. Well, give me a second. Hold still you big baby." Doc had reported on Nutt, the man's screaming having followed what had been undoubtedly the crack of an arm being set back into.

"Agh. 1-9, we're all battered but I think we're good." another one of the Rangers, but no other calls had been had reporting injuries as a flare was struck and that red light had highlighted a reconvening point in the middle of the street.

The horses had wobbled back up, all of them alive miraculously as the twenty four men all huddled school circle for head count, even those with broken bones.

Emerson's darting vision had been nothing short of frantic, the destruction around him slowly revealing itself as the dust cloud came down and the fires went up. "Alright, focus Emerson, focus." he knocked his head once with his own palm. "Nutt, Black, we're going to have to move. You think you can handle that?"

Black had been the only one unable to walk, but he had been thrown across Harris's back, he giving a weak thumbs up as he readied his DMR.

"God I hope Pina is alright." Itami had been lousy with dust, he having been in a rather officer's uniform than anything else, the man patting Tomita's chest and having some dust float off of it.

"It never gets any easier, does it?" he said, wiping his head clean. The Japanese had all survived earthquakes before, but never like this.

"Kouji's up there too I think…. alright, we're _**oscar mike**_ move it!"

Bannon had been quick to rally her squad back on her horses, but she had not forgotten the screams that started to roar throughout the district. It was impossible for her to not think about those slaves in their cages and how they would handle this, but she had the luxury of dealing with her own soldiers right now to ignore it.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital – Sadera Hill**_

* * *

Bannon and Ortiz had been up here with Emerson before, but none had seen it like it was now. The footpaths and the streets had all been ajar and cracked, but no buildings had collapsed. A testament to the Imperial engineers who designed the mansions.

The Imperial guards who had been panicked hadn't argued when Kay Ro Bronxon had appeared with a posse of twenty plus individuals. They had still worn their cloaks.

Amazingly Pina with a cadre of guards had come out to meet them, several of her Rose Order armed and ready, but not for them of course. Kouji had been in tow with a suit and tie.

"Sorry we couldn't get to you in time Pina! Kouji!" Emerson had yelled as Foulke ground to a halt, the horse exhausted. Emerson had not been so busy to not remember to thumb a sugar cube into his mouth. "You there, fetch water for my horses." he pointed and ordered off a few of the guards, they complying with little argument.

All Kouji could do was nod as Pina had been shaken up both literally and mentally about what had caused her mansion to have broken windows and have its tile shaken off.

"Captain Emerson, Lieutenant Itami. How was Akusho?"

Itami had whipped his beret out from under his helmet, getting rid of the dust. "Falling apart as we speak. Most of my squad is back at the Devil's House and the PX with Blackburn and the major, helping out the civilians that warned us. We were able to send out a warning to Arnus in time too."

"Wish I had that warning…"

Several of the guards had been cowering but Shino had been more than willing to show her might. " _ **Calm down! It will pass soon!**_ "

Hamilton had been clinging onto Pina as if her life depended on it. To be fair Pina could do nothing but tremble as she had survived the earth shake, spooked as Emerson approached. Perhaps Emerson hadn't been Rory's apostle, but Hardy's with how he seemed to follow the earthquake. Fortunately Itami had spoken to her first as the two officers brought her off her knees.

"Are you alright, Princess Pina?" Itami had asked concerned.

She shook her fear out of her as best she could. "Ah, yeah, I think."

"Hamilton." Emerson had addressed the young woman clinging to her, the woman freezing even tighter.

Itami had reassured them. "Something like this usually isn't a big deal. In Japan it's pretty common."

Pina had been more than aware that common translated into could happen again, her eyes going wide and deep as she grinded her teeth. "Will another come?!" she yelled.

Itami had nodded as Emerson got them onto their feet. "More than likely."

It was with that declaration Pina had shook Emerson off and stood on her own, ambition and the need to do something in her eye, clenching her fists.

"I must inform father at once. We must leave for the Imperial Palace."

The way she had said We had made Itami raise his eyebrow. "We?" he had no intention of complicating the situation anymore, but as Kay had once said about him and he: _"Right men, in the wrong place, and the wrong time… or something like that."_

"You won't be coming along?" she had seemed disappointed.

Kouji had already been antsy with an American having paid audience to the emperor first, however he figured that now was any time to do so to keep up with them. He had nodded at Itami. They were going to.

He straightened his tie. "If there was any place for the emperor to meet the Japanese, it would be here, helping his people. I doubt another opportunity would rise again. Emerson if you could go back to Akusho an-"

"No. We're going too."

Emerson had been quick to react, Kouji glaring. "You never makes things easy, do you?"

"The only easy day was yesterday. That and I'm the only one here from the Special Task Force to have talked to the emperor before. He would recognize me, and I would speak for you."

"All of your Rangers?"

"No. Masterson, Loke, Doc, Ramirez, you're with me. Bannon call for medevac on the steps of the capital with the rest and hold position."

"Affirmative captain."

"Yes sir."

Pina had looked at Kouji and he couldn't say no. Diplomatic relations were about to be opened up in the middle of a natural disaster.

* * *

"Woah…" Itami's breath had been lost from him as he looked up at the artisan patterns of marble and stone over his head. "It's like a Demon Lord's Castle from an anime."

I only shook my head at him, the cloaks of my Rangers and my own still fluttering in our wake.

"Reminds of a mosque, really." Loke's observation had been said through the very hijab that she had once worn as it was supposed to, it covering her neck as a scarf in that cold palace of an Imperial might.

The sentries had all been missing and I had been personally disappointed. I trained many of them to stand their ground in combat. Then again this wasn't exactly combat as they understood from me.

It was an oddity I had to train many Imperial guards posted in the very capital building itself, but apparently many of the elite order had been reassigned throughout the rebuilding Imperial Army, still recuperating from nearly half a million lost.

The Roman army had been around 450,000 strong at its peak. The Imperial Army had just barely been above that and they suffered because of their losses.

Hamilton had not know where they were as we all followed Pina, torches and flashlights in hand. "Where are we, princess?"

The doors we had been approaching had been grand and tall, befit those who had slept behind it during the Empire's time.

Even she as a Rose Order knight had not been in this sanctum before.

"Father's bedroom."

Everyone but me had shocked themselves at that fact, chills running through their bones. "Kneel and do not hold eye contact. Remain silent and do not speak unless me or Pina introduce you."

My Rangers and RCT3 had taken off their helmets in some show of respect.

Emperor Molt had been many things, but one of those things was that he believed that he had been a god in a way. He talked like it, acted like it, and although he had some common sensibilities that had been unrecognized by the senators themselves, some sort of down to earth persona he held, he had still been emperor of an empire that we were engaged in.

I drew my Winchester as I follow on Pina's side, kneeling immediately and digging my stock into the red rug of his bedroom.

"Sire." I ground through my throat.

"Father." Pina had gone the most forward out of all of us, going to his giant bed that hugged the walls of his chambers, his privacy curtain partly already broken.

The room had been shaken apart, but no serious damage had been given.

"Oh." an old voice, a voic man who was king. "I was certain that the first of my children to come to me would be Diabo or Zorzal… though I see Sir Bronxon has trained you well to be punctual."

She had accepted her father's words as he laid in bed, disturbed by the rumbling, but otherwise calm. "Father. Please ready yourself at once. I will accompany to you chambers."

"Do these people wish my audience now, of all times?"

"At my beckoning, yes father. It is important."

"… Very well."

 _ **"Hitman! Atteeeeennn-tion!"**_ My voice had snapped as I moved out of the room and joined my Rangers, Hamilton and Pina beating back the urge to not bow to my voice. The guards had no such luck as they snapped their heels together, however only to imitate the soldiers who actually knew what they were supposed to do.

Ramirez had been offered a highly honorable position in the US Army after Iran: a transfer to the Third Infantry Regiment, the Old Guard. The army regiment that had the sacred duty of protecting and honoring the memorials of fallen soldiers as well as protecting the US Capital and their Commander in Chief.

Ramirez had flunked out of training for that unit, however he had known how to stand at attention for honor, as if he had been standing before the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The Hitmen that were there had followed his stance as they flanked either side of the rug like a checker formation and stood at attention with a snap, their rifles laying on their shoulders, muzzle up and feet spread.

Naturally Shino, Tomita, and Kurokawa had tried to imitate as they all stood there and waited for an emperor, the faces of the Americans losing all emotion and like statues.

That had been something they were unable to copy.

* * *

Pieces of Masonry had been chipped off as we followed Pina and her father, the earth still slightly vibrating as maids and workers rushed to clean up.

The emperor had hardly the time to get himself fully readied for such a proceeding, but no one could blame him, even with his wavy long hair matching the fluttering of our cloaks.

As gaurds and guards convened around us Pina had shouted out orders like she had been a true leader. "Dispatch messengers to the ministers and the generals of our garrison here at the capital! Order them to assemble! Have officers take command of the guard and fortify Sadera Hill!"

She had waved her hands as she gave her orders, putting her heart and soul into it to my delight. "Trying to trap us here, Pina?" I said under my breath.

"I read in your world the army is deployed in times of great crisis in domestic affairs."

My mind soured as I remember the riots back in 2019, but I knew she had been doing her research right. "True enough."

She had put a hand to my chest as we all entered the throne room, just short of going on the steps before the emperor. This was as far as she'd let us go as foreigners.

The emperor had noticed too how Pina had grown in her ability, the bark, the bite, her ability to command soldiers over twice her age. He had settled down into his throne, his crown on.

"You've certainly changed Pina." he said, Pina nodding as the emperor looked to us, the guests of an inopportune time. "Now while everyone is being gathered, would you and Sir Bronxon introduce us to these unfamiliar people here. I believe Zorzal told me about them, but I'd like to be personally introduced."

She pointed her hand at each of us as she introduced us by who we really were. Even me.

"You are already acquainted with Captain Kristian Emerson, those in the cloak and the tan garbs behind him are his own knightly order: the Rangers." we saluted him. The emeperor had seemed to mentally stumble as he saw Pina give me another name.

"That is Sir Suguwara, envoy from the Nation of Japan. Behind him are several Japanese soldiers led by Sir Lieutenant Itami." they saluted as well.

"Japan… America…" the emperor had rumbled as he ran his hand through his beard. "I've been waiting a long time for this Pina. Long enough that I've tolerated you acting as an intermediary behind my back and for Sir Suguwara here ghosting me during my daily routines."

The two people in question had frozen as they had been made from the start. At least I hadn't tried to hide who I was. I would do away with the last of that disguise now.

I didn't know exactly what was going through my head but I knew something was going to come off of it as I drew my knife.

"I'm sorry you had to learn this way but…" My other hand had held the tips of my ears as I tugged on it once and revealed the stitching to strain.

Of course it had hurt, but there had been worse things to happen to me before the emperor as the squeamish looked away and I mutilated myself.

The Imperials who didn't know better would've thought I was bluffing, however I didn't even wince as the knife cut through the synthetics, the black lines that had been the stitching somewhat bloody as I had taken both the fake tips of my ears and tossed it at a guard.

"I will hold no lies from you, Emperor Molt. I thank you for your hospitality to me, however I come allied with Japan."

"Allies with the enemy on Arnus Hill?"

I nodded solemnly.

"I'm an American, but I am also a human, and we are allied with the force that occupies Arnus Hill. We come in peace, Emperor Molt Sol Augustus, but we are prepared for war."

The emperor had sat back in his seat at this revelation, but he did not seem surprised. He had either not cared or I had a lot to learn from him. "It is because of you… Emerson, I do not hold contempt right now. You trained my daughter, my officers and her order, with such diligence I will not mistake your intentions of meaning good."

I nodded down. "You have my gratitude, emperor."

"I look forward to these peace talks if that is the case, however, I imagine this is not what you brings you before me today."

Pina had shook her head. "No. They have knowledge of the natural disaster that has stricken our Empire. The sum of this knowledge being that it may come again."

"Again?!..." he seemed shocked as he adjusted his crown, however the crack in his voice disappeared. "Very well, I welcome any help you can give, honored Envoy Suguwara."

The man had risen from his kneel. "Thank you. And thank you for receiving us, your majesty."

The emperor had used his hand to lower Kouji's humble words. "One should not be so gracious during such troubled times, especially after a natural disaster. It is not, in my mind, the right order of priorities. You have my thanks regardless however. Regardless of this war we seem to be engaged in apparently."

"A war that might've been over already emperor!" Hamilton had yelled from behind a pillar, her outbursts making the eyes of the room fall on her before Pina had barked at her to be cast out temporarily.

She had believed those words, I know. She had wanted the Imperial Legions to march on us at Arnus so reverently, so blood lustily it betrayed her youth.

The emperor had made no note of the intrusion. "If the time and place was different, I would've held great banquets in your name to receive you, as I did… Emerson, is it?"

I nodded at my name.

"I eagerly await further negotiations between our nations, emperor." Suguwara had followed up in a bow.

Molt raised a finger as if pointing something out. "Though, as I was told from Pina's scouting reports, Japan has a monarch much like myself, is that correct?"

Our eyed had, for a second, turned on Pina. Loose lips had sunk ships.

Suguwara had nodded again, confirming the emperor's information.

"A sovereign that has been deprived of their power by the people. I did not believe such a nation a threat to us. However I understand beyond the Gate, things are… different. Especially if there are men like Emerson there: representatives of nations like Japan and America. It makes me wonder if you have always been allies with such great power, co-existing."

"Excuse me, your highness?" I softly said in the room that had seen a dozen emperors in the hundreds of years this Empire had existed.

"America and Japan must be equal powers. I myself wonder how my Empire will stand up to you. We've never encountered such a force able to equal us, therefore I wonder how you have dealt with that question."

It was something that gave us pause as we knew the answer of our own World War, nearly a century ago now.

If Pina had known, perhaps this question was rhetorical, already passed down to the emperor.

We never had a chance to respond as marching to our back had spurred us to readiness for engagement.

The sounds of moans and groans and pain. I was long used to hearing such things in this capital, but not in these halls, even with Tyuule. She was usually quiet when Zorzal had his way with her. It was a necessary evil I had to tolerate in my time here, but never I thought it would be acceptable for Zorzal to stridei n here with his knights, each of them pulling those sex slaves by chains: he had pulled many by one, ignoring us. However I saw his glance at me, at the fact I had been missing the tips of my ears.

They were all dragged past us, and we all saw them heave in pain as their skin was dragged across the unkind ground.

Masterson had his balaclava on, however he had still had a radio equipped, switching to our private frequency as covertly as he could. The mics we Rangers had been given had been throat mics, a band that had picked up even the quietest whisper and did away the bulbous microphone that most infantry units had used. It was because of that only we Americans had heard his whisper across our headsets.

 _"Eyes on one slave, black hair. Good god I think she's Asian."_

No attention was drawn when we turned our heads toward the dazed body being dragged across the floor that was barely living: a woman. A foreign woman with long black hair and a slim form, hurt and bruised all over below bodily fluids that had been more than just blood.

She among others had been in the same state.

Zorzal had been busy that night.

RCT3 hadn't picked noticed at first, but Itami had has Zorzal walked past him. He had also seen us all quietly flick the safeties on our rifles up.

Doc had turned his head away and looked back into the hallway, Zorzal's knights had been plentiful. "CASEVAC is on station, just in case." he also had rumbled.

"Brother! A meeting is in progress with honored dignitaries! If you don't wait you'll-!"

" _ **What are you being so laid back about?!**_ " Zorzal had yelled as he had stepped in front of Kouji, his knights standing behind us. We had been more than aware as Tomita shifted his own safety to off. He pointed at the black haired slave: " _ **Noriko**_ has told me that the ground may yet move again!"

He said her name to Pina. As if she knew. As if-!

Itami had pressed my shoulder once as we all heard that name. A Japanese name.

Zorzal, chain still in hand holding the sex slaves, had dragged them further up and shoved her sister out of the way. "I'm getting father out of here!"

"Brother! Calm down. Where would you even take him?! And at any rate, we know that the earth may shake again."

"So you heard from Noriko too?" Zorzal had asked his sister, Pina's face panicking.

"No- Noriko? Who's that?" she was guilty as sin of knowing.

I asked her very clearly, one of my very first orders to her: "Was there any captured people from beyond the Gate?"

She checked. I know she did. And she told me no.

 _ **She told me no!**_

"That one, right there." Zorzal had pointed her out as her backed burned from being dragged on the rug. "Right there."

Itami had locked eyes with her and she had seen him with faded vision, pained grasping of a world she did not understand. Her mouth moved, mouthing words again and again until at last her throat and breath had cooperated and uttered words so horrible it brought me out, showed me everything, and snapped me back into my mind in a horrible whiplash that made my breath cold and my gut wrench.

" _ **Tasu-…. tasukete."**_

 _ **Words can kill.**_

That's what Major Walker told me during training, as I laid belly first on the ground, sentries looking for me as part of my Ranger Training in the Florida nature. Moss having become my skin, breathing in dew as people walked right by me.

One word, in any language, across all the world, still made a sound, no matter how hushed. Word and tongue could expose one's self, and at the end of the day, a soldier spoke not with language, but with action.

Actions spoke louder than words.

Acta non verba.

Though perhaps, that's not what I thought as I heard that black haired woman look at us, knowing eyes: her mouth moving in the lingua franca that we had been trying to spread. Japanese was on her lips, and I remembered the quote of someone I learned from Syracuse, so long ago, explaining to me a part of why America had been whole.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _ **"One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland - and no other."**_

 _ **Emil Cioran, Romanian philosopher, 1987**_

* * *

The homeland, spoken and revealed by that one desperate word had been Japan.

She was Japanese, and she had said with perhaps her dying breath: _**"Help me."**_

I heard it. Masterson heard. Itami heard it. RCT3 and Hitman had heard it, seeing as it had been the loudest thing we had ever heard in our lives.

We all knew Japanese. Even my Rangers, Loke, Doc, Ramirez, Nutt, Harris, Bannon; all of them. That was a peculiarity of us that helped us work with the Japanese better than most, and the understanding of languages across time was usually a positive point in relationships. The JSDF Special Task Force had also been more than willing to learn more English, on top of their already considerable knowledge of the lingua franca of the world, however Masterson posed this to me this during his initial studying:

 _"I am learning Japanese: a language spoken solely on a secluded volcanic archipelago inhabited by racist xenophobes, all so I can either read terrible manga that hasn't been translated or yell at the GSDF boots and POGs during training exercises."_

No Cam, you learned Japanese so you knew exactly when shit hit the fan across two languages. Which was now, and he certainly did understand as he moved.

Itami had formed a fist as Doc had leaned down immediately to the chains, Masterson too late to reach out to Itami as he brought his fist back, Loke verbally yelling at the guards to back off as we touched the slaves, her gun up.

" _ **You son of a bitch!**_ _I'll FUCKING_ _ **KILL YOU**_ _!_ "

That's how it often falls apart: in slow motion, and even as Masterson had grabbed onto Itami's shoulders, Zorzal had taken to the hit to his cheek in a sickening crack, the Japanese ambassador grabbed by Tomita and put under his protection as the guards drew their swords.

His body fell as his jaw went askew, Itami throwing his strength into the throw, the follow through, the rage and the action incoherent with everything they fought for. He wanted to kill this man, and he tried.

Masterson had put his knee on the back of Itami's neck as he had drawn his M4 up toward Zorzal, not knowing what that weapon was he had rebounded quickly. " _ **You- You bastard!**_ How dare you hit a prince?!"

 _"What insolence to raise a hand against the prince!"_

 _"You won't leave this place alive Father of Sin! We'll kill you all!"_

Masterson had been quick to react, the cracking of gunfire from his rifle putting holes in the floor right in front of Zorzal as the casings flew and the prince flew back, a ricochet coming to take a piece off the emperor's throne, despite no reaction coming from him; he hadn't noticed it. This had given pause to his cohort for only a second as Shino had stepped forward with Ramirez and Doc, trying to bar them off, guns up and ready as I had drawn the Winchester from under my robes, from my kit, and cocked it with one hand.

Loke looked down and wiped away what liquid on her face, of tears, semen, and blood in one go and looked at her straight in the eyes. She was barely coherent, barely conscious, barely alive.

"There… are more…"

"Miss?! Are you alright?! We're from Japan. America. Maam?!" Loke had said desperately into her face.

"Are you here to….?" her words drifted above the cacophony of yelling from all parties, my men and RCT3 yelling for everyone to get back, the Imperials yelling at us to die. Even Pina at her Emperor's side had been shouting, yelling, but her words were confused, jumbled, not knowing what to do as something of hers, a plan, collapsed before her eyes as these chained women did before our feet.

"Yes! Yes! We're gonna get you home ma'am. Stay with us!" Loke had said as she drew both her pistol and her lifesaver kit.

"There is…more. There is…There are…-" her words went on as she drifted further away, the leather binds on her neck and appendages sliced off as she saw relief in the form of Loke.

"There is what ma'am? Don't exert yourself."

" _ **There is an American.**_ "

* * *

Heads turned, mouths opened, eyes stared at the Imperials.

Emerson's cold green eyes had looked at Pina, his knuckles turning white. " _You_ _ **LIED**_ _to me!_ " he had let the rifle on his sling drop as he opened up the flap on his leather Winchester holster unconsciously, bringing it up, cocking it as it came one handed.

"I- I didn't know!"

" _ **You were lying! Lying right to my fucking face!**_ "

"It's a misunderstanding!"

Pina had once wondered what this peace was worth to the Americans and the Japanese. She measured it in money, in material lost, in politics and in history to be gained.

However she had gotten the answer to that question. This peace was worth the life of a single person.

* * *

"Captain!" Itami had shouted to the ranking officer in question, he thumbing down his P220's hammer as he regarded the fighting force to his back, front toward the emperor. Emerson too, had his front toward the royals, and his eyes didn't only speak toward hatred, righteous fury, but they also spoke of the ugliest of human emotions to perform, and to react to: betrayal.

Betrayal between Emerson and Pina. He had simply given Itami silence, and to do as he wanted.

He pointed the pistol down at Zorzal to keep him still, he not knowing the power of the gun until the men and women behind him demonstrated. "You are free to engage! _**Light them up!**_ "

"Itami?!" Pina had yelled out. "What are you doing?!"

A question unanswered as the soldiers heard the order as Emerson approached her, her knees weak and heavy as she tried to step back, but only to trip as she saw the Father of Sin approach her: the Devil by any other name. Her own devil. His hands reached for her collar, her neck, but stopped just short. She was no good to him dead.

Bypassing Zorzal, bypassing the emperor and the servants, the world boiled down to only two people: Emerson and Princess Pina Co Lada, and in Emerson's wake, hell had followed. How easy, she realized, and how willing, that all these talks for peace, all these preparations for a bloodless future, would be thrown away at this slavery.

But she knew, deep down, that this would've happened. She knew she made a deal with the devil, and tried to hide away the sins of her empire, to save her soul.

Anger had made people raw, turned them back to their primal selves where the world had been a simpler place: of kill or be killed, and that primal state had made Masterson drop his M4 and, by habit, dived into his belt holster and pulled out, hip firing, and fanning, the first shots to kill on capital hill. Six shots, fast as lightening, across six men as the Peacemaker had bucked out and screamed before dropping to the floor, the one on the hind of his belt being pulled by his left hand and brought up to the level of his eye, being thumbed down and shot to another six, center mass.

Shino had almost lunged out in her instincts, however she had pulled back as Masterson fired his twelve shots from the guns that won the West, Doc, Ramirez, and RCT3 finding their peace as they flicked the safeties on their rifles off, and opened fire in a cacophony of chaos and insanity.

At least twenty of Zorzal's own knights had followed him in.

None were to leave.

If any of the senators who left the garden party with any doubts about the capabilities of the JSDF and the Rangers, either out of simply not being impressed, or not wanting to believe, here, at the feet of their mortal god, had been thrown down the bodies that proved everything of what these men and women were capable of.

Not the way, or the how, or the why, but just simply how easy it was to them to do the act of killing. No care for who it was, they just simply did with a the pull of an index finger, and a rifle as the knights charged, shields up and in tightened formation expertly.

But it was no matter. Not against firearms, rifle rounds, at the distance they were at as sights hardly needed to be aimed down from. The soldiers held their guns lightly, but firmly, knowing what they were going to do on royal ground as Emerson had taken Pina by the collar, Itami dealing with Zorzal by his own.

The torches held no candle the muzzle flashes of automatic fire, men crippling, being shredded to pieces, as hot lead tore through flesh like the flesh of fruit through the molars of pigs, their bodies twisting and reacting as the felt fire for the first, and last, time of their lives. Muscles, hands, limbs, hearts blown away in fleshy and blood spattering impacts as they, despite it all, continued to run toward them in their war cries.

The Emperor and Zorzal had been so engrossed in the devastating sight they had paid no mind to Pina and Emerson engaging in a silent stare off, gravity seemingly feeling ten times a strong, threatening to bring her body to the earth as in the span of ten seconds, mags were unloaded furiously into the bodies of men who had no chance and, in the end, in the minds of those who fired, deserved it.

It was never being shot that killed you. It was the bleed out, the organ chewing, the splattering of spinal cords and grey matter, that did and so as the first mags were being reloaded, the man who had gotten the farthest: a massive blonde with an artery in his leg shot and bone showing, had stumbled to in front of the firing line as Shino had simply pig stuck him with her bayonet mid reload, right in between the eyes and pulling up, his skull split in two as she used her boot to kick the body down.

Men were heaving, choking on themselves as the squad habitually fanned out.

A man in the back of the battle formation had tried to run, but Shino opened fire in a burst, unnoticed as mercy shots were put into the back of heads of other gasping knights.

The gaze on her face had been as dead as some of the guards, and yet, her eyes had been so alive.

Double tap, was the term, for what every soldier on guard was doing to each and every body, making a point: die.

Just simply die, for, in their minds, it was what these people deserved.

In another world, in another time, they would've said something to Shino, about how she didn't need to shoot that man, but as skull and brains started overlapping with the red of the carpets, flesh and blood seeping into the very roots of the chambers, they said nothing.

For they were complicit in the same sin.

Even Loke, as she sighted down her ACOG and had the splatter touch her face, she doing it in the name of retribution. Gone was her gentleness when presented with something so heinous.

Ramirez had walked this road once before, and so he had done again, as he had done to so many North Koreans who walked into Seoul and how they screamed for a god that was not so. To him, this was mercy.

Masterson simply was murderous, mad, the righteous rage of a man who had so much anger within him, let out as Americans do. " **Kill them all!** " he screamed as he picked up his blood stained Peacemaker.

Doc had drew his Luger as his SCAR clicked empty, one handed, Zorzal's knights pushing through as the Imperial Guards ducked behind cover.

Where was that civil restraint? Of knowing better? Of having lived the same mistake time and time again but not learn from it?

The muzzle flashes in the relative dark had only painted the silhouettes of the Marines, the Rangers, and the JSDF for split seconds at a time: in that blaze, they had looked the same as darkness and fire fought to illuminate them.

Itami had given the order. That was the rationale the Americans used as they dropped their mags to the floor and reloaded as RCT3 started a repeat of Italica: of men clambering of the bodies of fallen comrades. A diplomatic option, peace: it all seemed so far away now, and yet, it was all worth it when confronted with this. It was personal again.

But for RCT3, it was something less refined: the emotion, the impulse that America once used to justify Afghanistan.

 _"Surround them!"_

 _"Don't get careless! Get in turtle formation!"_

 _"Oh gods! It hurts!"_

The trap door opened up beneath them, and America was freed: an island nation replacing them they all realized as Shino led RCT3's standing, her full auto breaking stone and flesh. It was so impacting that the Rangers had slowly realized that all the ammo in the world could not provide for Shino and RCT3 as they just kept on firing, unaware of the madness they had immersed themselves in. The Rangers had realized that just tasted that old flavor again, and recoiled almost immediately.

Loke gagged in her mouth as Doc stood wide eyed, pistol out, locked back and empty as it fell to the floor, his pose frozen as Shino led the JSDF fire. He hadn't even realized it fell from his hands; for all his talk of knowing evil, it hadn't stopped the pause in his mind as he realized where it was: and it had been right in front of him.

And the fire didn't stop. It was too late now as Zorzal's knights all fell in a glorious charge of defiance, of the might of their empire faltering behind them when confronted with the JSDF.

She laughed, the hiccups in her throat coming from her psyche as blood spurted to her feet, to her form, and gave her what she wanted.

Seven six two full metal jacket. That was what Tomita and Shino had been firing from the standard issue battle rifles as the Americans stepped back, and let them do what they wanted, and into the darkness to disappear from this stage of history. Bloody history, bullets passing through skulls and hearts and going to the floor in stringy, fleshy, almost gelatinous chunks highlighted by bone and teeth.

Doc's hand tugging at Masterson's kit had made him step back as he emptied his Peacemakers, the fire from his eyes extinguished as the yells of combat stopped coming, bodies and bodies on the floor of this throne room, and replaced with the groans of people who wanted to die.

There are fates worse than death, Shino had known, as she had seen the Imperial Gaurds run away, back through the doors, and left Zorzal's knights to die as she walked over toward this one man: dragging his arm by the tendon, crawling on his back away from the monster as she smiled.

She affixed bayonets, and the Americans turned away as Tomita pushed forward and secured the area.

Shino's father had once told stories of the Second World War: where Marines would dig out the gold fillings of Imperial Japanese teeth in their island hopping if they were ever found. Regardless if they were dead and alive. And more often than not, they were alive, in agonizing pain, as the GIs took their knives and stuck it into their gums and dug their teeth out as they squirmed.

"No- NO! Wha- What are you do- mmpgh!" Zorzal's lieutenant had cried out before Shino had put her boot on the man's bleeding chest as she kicked his severed arm away, without second thought putting the bayonet into the man's mouth, finding room between his bottom two teeth, and twisting.

* * *

Emerson had been frozen, eyes staring, boring into Pina in fury, as Itami stared down her brother. This had left Masterson, recomposed, and loading new rounds into his peacemakers, to fully confront the screaming and squirming of the man that Shino had been dislodging teeth from, bloodily.

It was that screaming that made him turn around and face Shino, as Loke, Doc, and Ramirez, went to Emerson, expectantly, blocking all that horror out for their own sanity.

Masterson closed the loading gate with one of his blood stained Peacemakers and pulled the hammer down in sync with his voice.

"Sergeant Kuribayashi!" he yelled as a piece of Shino's victim's gums went with a few teeth as she twisted her blade in his mouth like a blender, her privacy granted to herself, courtesy to her horror.

She didn't hear Masterson's words as he had unconsciously raised the gun to her back.

"Kuribayashi! Shoot the man, or leave him! _**Now!**_ " he screamed.

And she did not listen still as she was enveloped in her own pleasures, her own mad laughing and panting that had made her hot and bothered, much like Rory. This wasn't a display of her combat ability, of her close quarters combat prowess. No, it had been simply her urge being satisfied. An ugly, evil urge that infected her more than glory.

Masterson had sucked in air as he brought the notched sights down, in between her legs, and fired once.

Even as the bullet went through the man's neck and into his spine, Shino did not stop. She simply did not stop her idea of doing her job. Of what she wanted to do as a Special Operator.

Masterson didn't know why, but he had thumbed the hammer down again, one last time, and, for the shortest second, levied it to Shino's back before turning away as the sound of flesh and blood being churned made him holster, walk over to her, and yank her by her combat harness out.

* * *

So Tomita had mowed them down alone as they came, all of them. Every guard that wanted to investigate the ruckus, every one of Zorzal's stragglers. Every one, without regard, with the ultimate excuse:

 _ **You deserved it.**_

When people collapse it's not a pretty sight, but they often collapse in ways so unlike themselves.

No one had told Hitman to stop firing. The standing battle necessitated that the room be cleared of all hostiles, and there were still knights pushing forward toward them. All the rage, all the fight, all the horrors they wanted to fight so desperately, they could not do it until Emerson had cried out the scream of a dying Empire into the halls and turned around, his rifle brought up.

Hitman would always follow Emerson. That was how they knew, how they followed, their officer, the man they had once jokingly called Jesus Khrist. Emerson had been no savior though. Not in the dramatics of war, the horror of events they were there for that would define history.

More defenders, the regular Imperial guard. As if in a trance the Rangers had snapped out of their self-realization and simply reloaded their weapons as they pushed in front of the two RCT3 members, Emerson loading his underslung grenade launcher.

RCT3 had simply turned around and held the Royals at gun point.

They didn't fire though. This war would not end like this. It couldn't have ended this early. The Japanese and Americans needed to end someway else.

No yell, no proper spotting of the running contacts, they just simply did as the mass of men came running down the halls.

Emerson's left index finger looped around the grenade launcher's trigger once, the men in front of that moving, rushing shield wall blown away in chunks and pieces of wood and flesh as the men behind them stumbled through the smoke.

Any self-respecting operator knew how to wield semi-auto just fine, and that was all that was needed as the rapturous sound of gunfire erupted once again.

Massacres never taken that long at all, not when the weapons had shot fire at several thousand feet per second, bullets flying through the air like stars in a blistering sky, making black holes in the faces of those who stood and rushed at the Rangers, coming down that hallway.

Bursts of two per man, per target, per scrambled heart and shield of an Imperial that ran but faltered as their insides were eviscerated by the loud gunshots that came from that defiant lane of Rangers.

"Emerson! Emerson stop!" Pina had yelled, however Shino had poked her gun forward, the barrel saying all that she didn't.

She had to wonder as she recoiled back at how many Imperials Hitman had really killed. Directly or not, she had to wonder, to guess, how much this Empire suffered and would suffer because of Hitman; because of Emerson.

Nearly eighty percent of the Imperial Army had been gutted between Arnus, Italica, and Ginza.

Emerson had been there for every battle, a bad omen, the devil in disguise.

Emerson had snapped his aim back and forth between standing targets, his fingers running white as he gripped his rifle so tightly, almost as if he had been drilling through people with his gaze alone. Loke had noticed this, Itami had noticed, this. Emerson himself did not as his trigger finger twitched and twitched and twitched again as fire was put down, his magazine dropping when empty only for a new one to be slammed in, the man nearly yanking the charging handle off the gun in his anger as the killing continued.

How people were when they were angry, tired, hungry, deprived of what was rightfully theirs had been very telling of who they actually were and who they had become in their life.

The calmness that Emerson had was not there as he acted on that anger. His teacher told him to act on that anger, all stemming from a beating at a college long ago where he did not do anything.

Condensed, displayed, used, Emerson's contempt had boiled inside him ever since he had become a man wronged that one, singular time, and he had drawn from it now.

* * *

The shakings of the Earth hadn't been enough to make Rory go to her knees, but something had. It hadn't been anything close. Her radio hadn't been reporting any combat activity in the Corridor, but she knew, somewhere, a fight was being fought, people were being killed, and their blood would soak into the roots of the world and history. The blood of martyrs, watering the tree of an imperial dream.

For the first time in nearly a century, she heard the voice of her god.

And he had been screaming.

* * *

My shoulder had gone numb as the recoil punched a hole through my shoulder. I didn't concentrate on the targets I snapped back and forth between as I put rounds downrange in that hallway, I tried to make it impersonal; tried to make it so I wasn't really there. So I focused on the gun.

The M16A2. Bursts of three, adopted by the Marine Corps in the early 1980s. Forty years on and it had a thousand year advantage against these Imperials. These soldiers who stood for things I could not tolerate, could not fathom.

This rifle had been mine, there were many like it, but this one had been mine. My rifle, without me, is useless. The power it wielded, the terrible power of five point five six ammunition fired out of the muzzle at a velocity of over three thousand feet per second, meant nothing without me, or someone like me, behind it.

Someone to shoot straighter, someone to shoot true, someone to shoot knowingly.

I know that what counts in war is not the rounds I fire, the noise of my burst, nor the smoke I make. I know that it is the hits that count. We will hit... We will hit every Roman, every Imperial who ran against us intent on striking me down in the name of Zorzal, in the name of the Empire, in that name of the savagery of different civilization we tried to deal with. That we would deal with in time, but differently, perhaps with this rifle.

The rifle with a barrel twist of one to nine with a lethal range of nearly a kilometer. Not the several yards in front of me as I was doing now.

I swore before God I had been a defender of my country. I had instead become a master of my enemy, and as I stood there as the last man fell onto his knees, threw his sword just short of our feet, I made the conscious decision to kill for the idea of my country.

I held the rifle across my chest with my left hand as my right arm went for my M45, drawing it with one hand, bringing its sights level with the dying man's kneeling head, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen knights, and I squeezed the trigger.

It was just as Kouji had wanted, I thought as the man flayed his arms out and took the bullet ot his head, falling on his back and molding into that disgusting moshpit of corpses and armor.

There was no more enemy. _**Only peace.**_

"Stay down!" Loke had yelled as she remained, most of the squad turning back around to bear their front toward the emperor. I looked and I saw one man who survived, blood frothing from his mouth, his sword used to help him stand shakily.

"Stay down?!" he screamed back, his helmet clearly having a bullet shot through it. "To do what? Die?!"

"Stay down!" Loke had yelled again, the man had been defiant and waddled closer, his sword making the clang of metal against the ground as he walked, his fingers running red as he gripped the blade inadvertently, tighter and tighter.

"Go ahead! Kill me!" he pumped his chest with his fist, banging against his metal armor before throwing his hand to the floor, at all the death. "I want to be killed for my Empire, _**for Emperor Molt**_! Not just to simply die at the feet of you monsters!"

And I knew the emperor had seen it all, the royals, to see am an die before them because it is what he had known right.

 _ **"Kill me! Kill me!"**_

Loke had appeased in another bang, her eyes dried behind her balaclava. Unable to be closed as she saw the knight drop to the floor, face down, darkness burrowing out of him as he died.

* * *

"She says there is an American here. More people from beyond the Gate. **Where. Are. They.** "

To hear Itami talked so coldly, it was a rarity, a bloody rarity. He had asked after the Rangers reeled themselves back, shutting the doors to the throne room.

"I have nothing to say to you! You barbarians! _But perhaps I would tell you if you get on your knees an_ -"

"Brother! Please stop-" Pina pleaded, the emperor either studying everything with his silent gaze, or stunned in petrification.

"Silence! You brought these Americans here! These people! You're nothing but the daughter of a whore! _**Know your place**_!" and yet he had still been on the ground, staring down the barrel of a gun.

"I was doing this for the-!" she tried to yell, to be angry, but she faltered in a sob. "I was doing _this for the Empire_! Why!" she tried to scream at it all, her eyes wide and empty and not understanding.

Why did Emerson gun down so many of the Imperial knights he had bumped shoulders with for the last month?

Why did Itami hit brother? Holding him at gun point?

Suguwara had gotten off the ground after the fire stopped, standing straight, flattening out his dress shirt as he stood there and addressed them, Doc and Kurokawa attending to Noriko. Suguwara motioned to her. "Why indeed. Why did you not tell us-" he stopped himself. He had known why. " _ **Were you aware of this Pina?**_ "

She could say nothing.

How humane she had known they treated the prisoners from Italica, fallen enemies, people from all the wars they had fought. She did not understand why she was seeing what she was seeing now, if only because she did not want to tell herself why.

It would damn her.

"It's a misunderstanding!" she tried to shout. "Everyone put your weapons down!"

Zorzal had cackled. "It is already too late, Sister." he waved his fist up toward Itami over him, the man not impressed. "America. Japan. I do not know where they are, but I will destroy their countries and cast away ALL they hold dear. I will show them the power of an Empire as the bunny people had! It is too late to beg for _**mercy**_. And it's all your fault!" he had pointed at Itami, and Emerson.

Emerson had appeared like a ghost, a reaper, his footsteps silent as he cast his rifle asides and almost shifting Itami away, taking Zorzal by his collar and hauling the much larger man up. "There are FATES worse than death, Caesar. Answer my comrade's questions or I will show you what I mean." he was forehead to forehead, touching Zorzal before he had fallen back on the floor, his rifle hit by its stock and flying up into his arms.

"You degenerate Darkie. I would never- _**auUGGGH**_!"

A gunshot to his thigh, Emerson had pointed the rifle down as the casing flew out.

Itami had barred his hand across Emerson as Zorzal writhed in pain, the bullet buried within his flesh. "I'll handle it. Tomita, Kuribayashi, Doc: escort the woman and Suguwara out of here." They had all answered in an affirmative as Doc threw a blanket around Noriko's form, the other sex slaves scurrying away, freed from their bonds.

They didn't want to move, not as they were standing at the base of history, Doc applying bandages and wiping her clean with a sanitizing agent, Kurokawa getting her form on a deployable stretcher from the Ranger medic's bag.

The lieutenant had lit his cigarette, took in a breath that would've made the Devil hack, and blew out in the face of Zorzal, obscuring his vision enough so that he never saw what was coming.

Itami's free hand had wrapped around Zorzal's neck as his head was brought forward: that burning cigarette being drilled right next to his eye.

Zorzal, for the first time in his life, knew pain as a blood curdling noise came from his throat as he squirmed underneath Itami, his back pushed on the ground as slowly the cigarette and all of its burn slowly slid its way to his right eye.

And he screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed for any God that would listen as Itami came ever so close to the white of his eyes, only to drag the burning stick down below the eye, and slowly burn his mark into his cheek before being tossed away and his face beaten in by Itami's fist again.

Teeth broke, as did his nose, as blood immediately came forward and splashed itself on Itami.

Zorzal raised a hand up to resist, but that hand was taken by Itami by two, and as he made Zorzal replicate a Vulcan salute, he tore the two pairs of fingers in two directions, breaking them and tearing them, almost off of his hand as he was forced to use that mangled appendage to break his fall.

Before he had stopped moving Itmai's dress shoe had found his face, teeth breaking, nose cracking, blood flowing.

The maids had cried, the survivors groaned as they were finally killed by mercy shots, and the royals had watched in horror.

And over everything Shino had laughed in the background. _**"Finally!"**_

 _ **"Talk!"**_ had put his heel on the gunshot wound to his thigh, Zorzal's screams resounding into the night, making the torches ebb and flow. _**"Talk!"**_

"Nu- No! I can kill both of you with my bare hands!"

Itami had pointed his gun down toward him. " _ **Try me.**_ "

Zorzal shifted toward the two, and Itami would've fired. He was going to, save not for the appearance of one of the slaves, broken from their chains.

Tyuule.

Her arms had been out, spread eagle, protecting the broken form of the Imperial prince, her eyes had been resolute. No one would touch him unless they went through her. The right woman, in the right place, at the right time.

"Of all the fucking people, _**you?!**_ " Emerson had yelled in his own language. Not many had understood, but Tyuule did only because Emerson pointed one finger out.

She had nothing to say, but her point was clear.

" _We sold them as slaves! That's all I know! Men, women! We sold them all!_ _ **They were nothing special!**_ "

And that was all Zorzal could say as Itami lowered his pistol, Kouji and Emerson going forward before an emperor. The prince had fallen to the floor, dead, passed out, one of the states which kept him out of the picture, Tyuule going to the floor in worry as she cried his name and called for help.

For once Kouji and Emerson stood there in concert. "Unfortunately that banquet you mentioned earlier will have to be postponed until further notice; at least until we get our citizens back." he had turned around, but paused. "I'm not familiar with your gods, but please do pray they are still alive."

" _ **Pinya.**_ " Emerson's voice had sounded so low the woman in question froze as if she heard the devil himself talk to her. To her, that was very much the case. "I expect any information you may find on them be sent to us immediately."

The backup guard had put their shields on the ground and locked together like a turtle. Their spears over their heads and pointed toward them as Hitman and RCT3 formed a chevron in front of the civilians.

 _ **"Enough!"**_ Molt's voice, the sound of him shooting from his chair straight, the absurdity of seeing war at his very feet. "I do not wish to see any more blood spilled here today." he looked down at Kouji and Emerson. "Sir Suguwara, Sir Bro- Sir Emerson, the soldiers of your country are strong, I will admit that much, but I see now their weakness."

"What weakness, Emperor Molt?"

 _"Your countries love their people too much and that'll come back to haunt you. Strong justice can be easily predicted._ _ **Strong faith will lead to great losses.**_ _"_

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _American Casualties in the Afghanistan War as of 2015: 20,904_

 _American Casualties in the Iraq War by war's end: 36,710_

 _Coalition Casualties in Afghanistan as of 2015: 3,407_

 _American Casualties across all wars in Manifest Destiny by 2029: 3.1 Million_

" _The total number of deaths in the three countries named above (Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan) could also be in excess of 2 million, whereas a figure below 1 million is extremely unlikely."_

 _From their joint report— Body Count: Casualty Figures after 10 Years of the 'War on Terror—Physicians for Social Responsibility, Physicians for Global Survival, and the Nobel Prize-winning International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War regarding the human cost of the War on Terror_

* * *

Under his breath, on the tongues of every American, they had all wanted to respond so knowingly, so sadly, relegated to their fates. They all knew what they wanted to say and it hurt:

" _ **We know."**_

"If your enemy is strong, unbeatable, you simply should not fight them. Your country should take care to know that."

Kouji had forgotten there were Americans in the room as he stepped back toward the emperor. "My country…" he straightened his tie. "My country has taken that weakness, that moralistic integrity, as our national policy. Our army, the Japanese Self Defense Force, protects that policy. _**Would you like to test us?**_ "

"You wouldn't be able to stop us." the emperor responded. "Why don't you just negotiate for peace?"

Kouji had looked down at the blood soaked carpet, his heels digging into the floor, and shook his head. It felt so right to know past all the bullshit he had thrown up against Emerson would be thrown down here. "It doesn't matter I guess. Peace… peace is just another name for the time before another war. Our country far exceeds the might of this Empire and much of even our own world. It is a country built on a history of bloodshed so what use is it to have peace negotiations no- peace, at all?"

" _ **Because you would not win this war.**_ " Emerson shouldn't have said anything at all, but he did. He said it English, and only the Americans had heard what he said in his hushed relegation.

With that, silence, the rumble of the earth ever more.

Itami raised his hand and pistol outward. "We're leaving."

Not on the emperor's terms, but their own as the guards all stood by and saw the enemy inches from them, unable to do anything.

Pina reached out one last time to her teacher of a month who had taught her so much. "Kay!"

" _ **You've disgraced me**_." his words had hit her like a bullet, falling to her knees as tears swelled in her eyes. The pen, Doc's pen, had still been in her ear, and it fell to the ground only to make a metal smack against an unknown item on the floor.

Before she had closed her eyes to cry however she had seen the blurry image of a black object who had seen war longer than anyone in that room had.

She knew what it was, she had held it, used it before, and damned it for it being presented to her by destiny, Sergeant Bannon's words when she had identified it long ago echoing in her mind.

 _"German model P-08. Nine millimeter Parabellum._ _ **A Luger**_ _."_

* * *

Before we had stormed out the front door, Imperial knights and guards told to stand down still surrounding them, the Rose Order had been there.

"Is Princess Pina alright?" Hamilton had screamed aloud, her and the rest of the knights blocking the door way, shields up, swords out. "Is she?!"

"Go check on her. She's fine."

The blood on our forms, in our footsteps, it had told a different fact. They wouldn't believe us. They didn't believe us as Loke and Masterson pushed forward, Doc, Ramirez and RCT3 covering our backs. I had held my arms out for them to get behind me.

I had trained them hard. Trained them vigorously. Trained them as my trainer taught me. I knew what had made them tick, made them go in order, and bring them to their knees. I had beat it into them and what I was capable of.

Hamilton walk forwarded towards me, just like how she greeted me the first time here, challenging me.

Pina hadn't been holding me back this time.

 _ **"Fall in line!"**_ my voice had betrayed itself, and it had gone low, growling almost. My Rangers had tipped their heads up by habit as they heard those words, but beat it back. The Rose Order's dozen deep line had stumbled as their faces froze and their stances fell for a second. Hamilton herself had stumbled horribly, going to a stop as she lost her breath, her brain comprehending those words. Her fury wanted her to stand straight. Her habits, her training, had told her to get on her knees. Like glass breaking one side had prevailed. I stepped forward as I said it, the group coming with me as our shadow cast itself over her and overwhelmed. _**"Fall!"**_

To bring someone on their knees by voice and authority alone, that had been a part of who I had trained to be, and everyone had recognized it.

They fell in line, they fell apart, and they let us go as we left them behind.

* * *

"This is Hitman Actual to Overlord. Do you copy Overlord? Over."

"This is Overlord-Actual. Go ahead Hitman Actual."

Bannon had cranked a flare as she had thrown it forward, landing before the steps of the Imperial Senate, unquestioning of what had happened in the capital as she had seen the Japanese slave. "RCT3 and Hitman elements have confirmed the existence of slaves. American and Japanese citizens included. How copy over?"

"…."

"I repeat. Hitman has confirmed existence of Japanese and American slaves. How copy Overlord? Over."

"Overlord copies all."

A few clicks of the radio later, behind Overlord's transceiver, and Emerson knew it was a wide band declaration about to be announced. A contingency for this worst possible scenario. A scenario where America had to be who it had been, so long ago.

And yet the Japanese did not know. Only the Americans. They were the first to know. Not Hazama.

Shino and Tomita had cringed at the cackle of their radios. It had been an American message.

 _"This is Overlord Actual to all US Military units. We have confirmed Imperial status on slaves and have confirmed American slaves are present in the AO. As of Zero-two-zero-zero hour, all forces are standing by on DEFCON 2. I repeat. To all US Military units within the Special Region, DEFCON 2. We are on war footing. Report to your company commanders at once and prepare for mobilization. All orders must come from American officers and command authority from here on in. Disregard JSDF command unless outright stated by your commanding officers. Authenticate Ulysses. May God have mercy."_

Kouji looked at Emerson in shock as the Americans turned away all of the sudden, and left the Japanese behind as they threw their hoods over their heads: a Black Hawk chopper formation touching down in front of the capital with the backdrop of a burning Empire. Nutt had been ferried over as the bloodied Hitmen separated from the Japanese.

The Japanese slave had been taken from them. They were going to get back home faster than anyone.

"What are you doing?! This is a Japanese operation!" he yelled. All RCT3 could do was watch as Hitman had become worthy of the title the entire world had held in scorn at one time or another. An ugly word with a weighted connotation that seemed to drag the people it described to hell: **_American_**.

Emerson turned around coldly. "Not anymore."

" _ **What?! Someone get to Lieutenant General Hazama now! He needs to know of this information fir-**_ " the choppers had drowned out his yelling as Hitman had mounted with the Japanese citizen.

Some could argue it never had been a Japanese operation.

Not in control, command, or planning. No. It had never been a Japanese operation because of its character, in its soul.

And thus, the Japanese had fought an American war.


	27. 2-8: The Line

_**A/N**_ : Holy shit I hate these chapters where I have to write the JSDF as they were originally in canon and have to throw them against the foil that is the Americans. I apologize in advance because I feel like this isn't as best a follow up to the last chapter as I imagined.

Anyway, reviewer responses:

 _ **McFreedom**_ \- Good god I think you're the only one who noticed that little detail with the missing team. Good catch, proud of you.

 ** _Vector, Education System_** \- Looking at your two reviews and requests for the Royals' fates is rather interesting. They're very real responses to a hypothetical situation that draws from something more true than most people would admit. I think that you two actually sum up the "face value" reactions toward Zorzal and the Empire. Appreciate the fact you came out and said what you said.

 ** _TheBleachDoctor -_** That last line is probably the throat punch line I've been wanting to throw at people ever since the beginning, because it is that line that basically summarizes the basic premise for Manifest Destiny.

 _ **Mr Terrorist**_ \- I caught you giving me and Faust a shoutout on TVTropes, do awfully appreciate it. Also would like to see how someone would trope categorize Manifest Destiny in general, but I won't press you to do it, just curious. Same type of curiosity of me having an illustrator or artist work with me one day to draw a scene from this story or Hitman.

 _ **MysticFett**_ \- I do appreciate you lining out several points for me that confirm what I've done subtly is getting through, and by god do you know how to make dramatic statements on your own: I really did like that "where the souls of men go to die line", might borrow it.

 ** _RefractionOfLight_** \- I wouldn't have a story about American Imperialism without forgetting about what we did in the Philippines, I wouldn't be so careless to forget. It wouldn't be right. People need to know, to remember. Appreciate you pointing it out.

 ** _Nanozom -_** I'm glad you mentioned that, to you at least, I capture that horrible, dragging feeling of dread. I imagine people came into this story to read about America kicking absolute Imperial ass like it was 1776 again. I didn't do that though. Why would I? That's just not healthy to write about. As for Shino: You bring up all the points that people don't like about her, and you very much speak for them in that she is out of line. And yes, she has not gotten her proper punishment yet, but I understand what you're saying. People like her are the reason shit like My Lai happens, but the thing is: any of us could be Shino in a way.

Let's assume you play videogames, Call of Duty, Battlefield, something that I'm sure Shino played growing up.

You go around a corner of a wall and you see seven enemy soldiers stacked up: this is multiplayer of course, more gratification in what you're about to do because of that.

You have C4 equipped, like so many montages we see in Battlefield, and you toss it into the middle of their line and pull the clacker as you duck behind a wall. You here the point alert. You just killed seven avatars representing real people who wanted you and your team dead. The game awards you by giving you an amazing amount of points and a spot on the game leaderboard for just killing seven people in a row, in one go.

You feel awesome, and by god I know you're gonna throw another stachel just to get the stragglers before going out there and pumping lead into the rest.

For a second, you are Shino Kuribayshi, and you know that killing is harmless; killing is beneficial to you in that instance. And a videogame is only a situation like any other. In a different situation, the feelings would be the same.

But I'm sure you know better, right?

As for Rory, good catch, she's very deceiving. She tricked me at first, but I came to see her as more than just a threat.

 _ **Rossriders -**_ Don't worry, I understood ya. I especially understood what you said regarding the fact this is a fic where the original author went "Could you do better?" and I answered "We'll just see."

 _ **CerberusX -**_ Outside the Special Region, in our world, yes. Inside? Only a little bit more.

 ** _RealityDeviant -_** I never promised that this story would be an apolitical one, and inherently, yeah, this story is full of my views because I'm the author. However even then I think I've been good at making this not a personal story, but a broader one that goes beyond feelings that only one man can have. Even if I tired to make an apolitical story out of this, I don't think it'd word. Anyone who says politics really don't matter in war is either ignorant or doesn't care. Even in the trenches, or the dirt, there's always a reason. If I pulled back the political aspects of wars as we know it today, it'd simply just be boiled down to "Americans want to kill Arabs because they're mad at us because we're killing them", "Israeli's killing Palestinians because they won't leave" and "You're wrong, so die." It's not that simple, and politics helps explain why wars and conflict happen.

 _ **pwashington, inyourmind11** _ \- Will Japan and America come over blows regarding this? Well, I often have to think if any of our Coalition allies tried to stop us from going into Iraq and wonder "what if someone did try to stop us".

 _ **DerBouncer**_ \- America's view on prostitution? Well social stratification at work, I believe. No one should have to sell their bodies to survive, but if that's the case that's the case, and we'll try to stop it from happening at its worst, and we do put people in jail for soliciting sex, but as I said: people have to survive somehow. Same as the prostitutes in Akusho. And would people take up their offer? Well, if I remember correctly, you gave me a review earlier that seemed to sound like you were German Armed Forces, would you think any of your fellow soldiers would've taken up the offer? And, this is a personal question you don't need to answer and I'll offer to anyone, would you take up the advances of any of these women in the Special Region?

Also I don't intend to leave the rest of the world behind while Japan and America have their drama. Russia and the Eurocorps will have their time of day some day, long from now.

 _ **Scholastic**_ \- I've got like, five ready for the Flame Dragon, don't worry bro.

 _ **In general -**_ Don't read too much into my Spec Ops The Line referencing, that's not the time or place for it because, like Heart of Darkness, I'll have an Act in the future dedicated to the events in Dubai... then again this might not be the chapter to say that in.

Welcome to Hell, I've been waiting for you... Man, I can't wait to get rolling with the flame dragon arc.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-8**_

 _ **Posted on 2/9/16**_

* * *

The Harriers had escorted the Medevac flight back to Arnus, however their Doppler buzz had been eclipsed as Hitman had come within sight of Arnus Hill, now alight with activity as Camp Kilgore was also full of life.

Emerson had gotten up in the chopper midflight and hung out the side as he realized that the Harriers and the medevac flight hadn't been the only ones in the air.

Hitman's RTO had tuned in. "Holy shit, the entire net is lit!"

Individually the Hitmen had all listened to their radios as they realized what had been happening as another Blackhawk formation just lifted off from Camp Kilgore, joining circling JSDF Hueys and the Apaches, the Medevac flight being buzzed by another formation of Little Birds and Hueys going the opposite direction in the morning sky.

 _"Assassin 2-1 to Valkyrie 3, push for vector two-zero-zero and follow us to the border. Over."_

 _"Valkyrie 3 copies all."_

 _"This is Mobius One to tower, request MPs to apprehend F-4 pilots upon touch down, how copy tower?"_

 _"Recon Team two through four deploy and egress toward map grid 10-Delta-Foxtrot and accompany Assassin 3-4 and 3-5 in operations in that sector. Out."_

 _"I want the miniguns loaded and every in full kit! This is a combat operation! We're stepping off_ _ **now**_ _! Tell those_ _ **fucking Japs**_ _to either buck up or get left behind!"_

 _"Requesting fire mission! Ten digit grid, November Uniform, zero nine-seven one! Fire for effect!"_

 _"Assassin 4-3 and RCT5 have eyes on first target! Touching down!"_

 _"Contact on Imperial footmobiles! Remember the ROE!"_

What seemed like hundreds and hundreds of helicopters had been taking off from Arnus and Italica. For every flight returning another would go out, the jets above flying top cover as two JSDF F-4s landed and were followed down by American Humvees.

Looking between Hiroki and the mass mobilization out of their door, the winds of war had passed by Masterson's face as his sarcasm took the better part of him, looking at the blood stain on his pants and on his palms, imprinting onto his rifle. " _I liked it better when_ _ **we**_ _just shot Muslims._ "

The only easy day was yesterday, after all.

"Shut the fuck up Cam…" Emerson had said tiredly. Masterson bowed his head apologetically.

Cam didn't mean it, but one of his squaddies, a Kurd, had patted his shoulder understandingly as the helicopters passed over Italica, going toward Arnus.

Bannon had leaned out and saw the well weathered Corridor. It had survived, albeit with a few more bent supports and collapsed buildings than she had appreciated.

But that had been the least of her concerns as an American Cobra flight had passed them by, escorting another RCT team in their Huey on the way out to parts unknown to them.

"They're going back the way we came." she had noticed, almost gurgling into her radio.

"You think war's started?" Harris had asked as he held his LMG between his legs, his voice innocent like.

The screech of artillery guns going off had answered for the Hitmen, the drums of war had been beating because of them, and it was a righteous war, as far as they were concerned.

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

 _ **D-Day + 48**_

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega – Joint Marine/JSDF Command**_

* * *

The command staff had relocated inside the building, the next few tremors could've been weathered fine and they actually needed the instruments and consoles inside the building to take control of the situation. The Corridor hadn't been as lucky, structurally wise. This damage had been anticipated however given the rampant construction that had always been going on in its inception.

It wasn't anything they hadn't been prepared for, the Seabees were more than ready to take on the job of assisting the local contractors in the repairs. It gave them ample excuse to rig the new electrical fixtures and plumbing as per Lelei's requests.

There were casualties, but they were expected. That was what had made the business casual as the Marines and the GSDF had gone back into the Corridor and started sorting the rubble with volunteers.

"Reaper is reporting little to moderate damage to the Corridor. The purification station by the river is green and the Tesseria and Appia Highway checkpoints are still operational." one of the radio operators had rattled off to the command. Pierce nodding as he had bounced his dentures against his bottom lip in poor habit.

"Good thing about the villages and the Corridor being developed like this is that there wasn't much built up in the first place." Hazama had sat down in his chair next to Pierce. Chairs had never really been important to Pierce, the commander that he was had never sit down. He had once been a foot soldier all the same, much like Emerson, there had hardly been a time in his early days where he sat down when kicking in doors in Afghanistan and covering roads from would be insurgents. In Korea he had never given the opportunity to sit down between dodging North Korean mortars and gunfire.

To sit down meant that you were comfortable; vulnerable. And Pierce had been wise to keep himself always cocked. He had to live up to his rather fierce name, his Medal of Honor, the expectations of his men. His men had viewed him as the colonel of dreams: the man who mediated between non-understanding generals and officers to them. He gave them what they needed, not what they wanted, and a Marine operated under those pretenses best.

He had been a warfighter, a man who had killed with his Marines as a lieutenant colonel in Korea, a captain in Iran, a lieutenant in Afghanistan.

Sevson had been the same. His willing shadow, the bark to Pierce's bite.

This all contrasted with the lax Hazama, who had only seen the JSDF go into Korea as a colonel, who never saw the frontline with his own eyes.

This was perhaps the first carnage he had seen from a disaster.

To him, it was a job. To the Marines, it was their duty.

And yet Hazama ordered that the JSDF could handle the initial disaster response alone, the Marines all hoarded instead to their staging areas and told to sit and wait.

"Not pleased with our handiwork, lieutenant general?" Sevson had crossed his arms as he took Pierce's seat and leaned in it.

"Oh I am, I'm just worried if the residents will be able to sustain all this when you're gone."

Sevson had clenched his teeth, but avoided saying anything as Pierce did in his own sultry tone, clicking his teeth back together. "The Navy Seabees have been working hand in hand with the locals during construction. We've been offering them on the job training."

The language classes had been handed off to the JSDF as the Marines focused more on materials and practical skills in various workshops hosted in Italica. Nutt had been the only Ranger who had taken up the job, and what he had taught was more related to woodworking as opposed to his usual teaching shtick, carpentry, metallurgy, welding, and even amateur vehicle understanding was taught as the books from Kurdistan and Iran were dusted off and brought to the Special Region.

Knowledge with no borders, knowledge that brought life and work as seeds and crops from beyond the Gate were allowed to be given to Italica's agricultural members and breed a new harvest the like that world had yet to see.

It was the design of a rather simple strategy against terrorism in the Middle East: as long as the man that would be a fighter was a worker, there would be no one to fight.

That had been applied here, if not for the sake of getting the hundreds and hundreds of immigrants a role in this new hybrid society. That is that had been the plan without the earth shakes that literally upended the people, all of them forced out and held under watch by the Marine fireteams and the Warlords.

"Bravo flight is reporting that they have been called by Hitman and RCT3." another operator had rattled off. "Visual feed of the Capital will come in estimated five mikes."

"Think any of them got hurt?"

"The Rangers? They're tougher than they look." Pierce had said sarcastically. He had thought highly of them. He never had his way with the Army, but the Rangers were alright. They were tighter regulation than most of his Marines and the JSDF especially and he had appreciated it. Politer than the Navy SEALs he had remembered… "Fourth Ranger Battalion has been raring to go ever since Hitman came."

"Really?" Hazama had asked, Yanagida having always been at his side and nodding at him.

He had answered almost gratingly, the idea of more American special forces coming over a horrid idea to him. "Hitman used to be the 2nd Platoon of the Fourth Ranger Battalion's Bravo Company. They were the only Rangers able to deploy in Ginza that day, and thus, they were able to come here."

"Hmph." Pierce had only nodded at the assessment. "Major, where's Force Recon?"

The Force Recon had been Pierce's only special forces capable operators he had under his direct command, not quite SOF, but the best he had. Specialist Valentine had been Force Recon if that had attested to anything.

"Lyncher is currently on security detail in Coda Village securing the MP station there."

"Where are the reserve Air Force pilots?" The US Air Force personnel that had been in the air had been the handful or so in Reaper, the rest waiting for America's last A-10s to be delivered to see one final war in the Special Region. The replacement for the A-10s had been a bit too much for the Japanese to take on. However Blackburn had improvised all the same and gotten the last A-10Ds out of mothball on the rather credible reason that their particular brand of firepower had been needed here, citing Italica's human waves.

"They hitched a ride with some of the engineers to assist, last I heard. They've been sitting on their asses long enough that they wanted to do something." Yanagida had answered.

The pilots had been cooped up in their barracks at the Joint Air Base, and Pierce had appreciated that with all the ego that pilots like them and Noelle had thrown around. True, a few of his Marines had gone out on the town in the Corridor as if they weren't in "hostile" territory, but the JSDF had been all guilty of this: Soldiers all wandering the towns during their down time, which had been all the time.

The Marines had known better. His Marines at least. Veterans of Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq, Korea. They had long since seen civilians as enemy combatants or enemy combatants to see, and even Noelle's paranoia had been reasonable then.

They had to remember that they were the invaders, and one day someone would have to fight back.

Where the Japanese were when it happened was no matter to them.

A radio report had been patched into Pierce's console, it being then sent to Hazama. The Japanese general looked up at the security feed on the giant screen that showed the Gate.

"Not one scratch on it." he observed, backing up the observations of the Navy Seabees and the GSDF engineers.

Major Sevson had corroborated as he sipped at some coffee. "Alpha Point took some gunfire during the Ginza Incident too. Not even our fifties were able to chip at it. Can't even get damned samples from it… Lelei didn't even try."

"Miss Lelena knew better?" Hazama asked.

Sevson had nodded. "She told me she was going to go to this mage academy to the north in a month or so, some place in an old city called Rondel. She's still just a trainee technically in her arts and Mister Altestan doesn't have the authority to deem her an archmage." Cato had been a splendid teacher, despite his occasional passings at the women of the Corridor, Bannon included with her hawk like elegance, but he hadn't been of such a rank as bestowed by the magical colleges to decree whether his disciples could be archmages.

Still Cato had been a rather extraordinary wizard, and although he hadn't the reputation that Rory had garnered, many had recognized him through the land as a man who wielded amazing power for rather beneficial causes: creating craters for new ponds and lakes to form providing drinking water, wiping out firestorms in elven villages, fight off the living dead with nothing more than a snap of his finger… Agent Beckett had talked with the man regarding his magic abilities a lot (in exchange for the company of beautiful women of course).

It had been a rather sensible topic, especially with Sevson. The man had spent some of his childhood playing the Elder Scrolls games to easily take in the ludicrous nature of magic and witches with little complaint. Not so for most of the Special Task Force that hadn't indulged in fantasy videogames, anime, or any media of the like.

Then again, it was the same vice versa for the locals on the careers and colleges on the other side of the Gate. Still, him and Pierce had been getting constant memos from the Pentagon and everyone's favorite intelligence agency about sending over "samples" of a magic user.

Those memos often got lost "in transit" as the two Marine commanders had explained to Langley.

Hazama had shrivled his nose and cupped his chin as he remembered one of Lelei's conversations with him. "Apparently Lelei wants to establish a literal "College of the Modern" in Italica... apparently she's gonna name it after me."

Sevson had felt a little offended he hadn't been offered to have the name origin of all those learning programs being run in Italica. "…She does that." he admitted sheepishly. "I've got a small claims courthouse named after me."

"Small claims? Really?" Pierce had butt in.

"Miss Lalena is really taking a lot of our systems to heart. If I didn't know any better she's trying to make this whole transition process of Japan-ification easier."

"Well, I'm sure it'll be a treat to a nomad like her that she'll be remembered by history." Hazama's comment had been a bit more condescending than the Americans had liked, but he had a point.

History would always remember people for certain things, and the least the living could do for their reputations was to try their best and make their lives worthwhile enough to be held in history highly. If that was Lelei's intention she was on the right track.

It wasn't her intention however. She was raised a learner, she was a learner, and, if it so happened to be the case, she would die a learner. The mysteries of the world had always been at her sensitive finger tips due to her magical prowess, and to know that there was another world to learn of, one that would support her as best they could…

She never would openly admit this except to Bannon during tea time, but she was excited, happy, at how everything was going. The history of Falmart had never been a happy one outright, but now things would be looking up.

History would always remember America because of the darker things it had been enveloped in.

Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran, a Special Region.

History repeats.

" _This is Hitman Actual to Overlord. Do you copy Overlord? Over._ " Emerson's distinctive voice: the Bronx, Latin twang on top of a fairly practical tone that could've deviated to kind and friendly to pure seething, grating contempt.

Overlord had thought this the usual routine call, ignoring the coldness in Emerson's throat as the Hitman had called in, pushing down on the radio connected to the console. "This is Overlord Actual. Go ahead Hitman Actual."

"RCT3 and Hitman elements have confirmed the existence of slaves. American and Japanese citizens included. How copy over?"

The blood drained from his face as the seconds turned into years and destiny manifested before him. A cold road, the definition of history about to be imprinted by him again, it gave him pause and stopped him cold. Sevson had seen that look only once before as he had immediately picked up a radio set himself and clamped it to his ear, snapping once to get Pierce to snap out of it as they had looked around at the JSDF staff and thought of the horror show that had been about to happen.

 _ **Orders were orders.**_

"I repeat," Emerson had called again as the distinctive sound of the Medevac chopper in the background was heard. "Hitman has confirmed the existence of Japanese and American slaves. How copy Overlord? Over."

" _ **Overlord copies all.**_ "

Sevson had dug his nails into his palms as he had gotten out the literal operations playbook, but they did not need any refresher. Not when these orders, this contingency, came down from a President himself.

Their own people were at hazard, subjugated to one of mankind's darkest acts, and they were told to wear the mask of a righteous America again. That America was needed: the one that took charge, the one that overstepped boundaries and made the world mad. This time it hadn't been for world peace however, Middle Eastern stability, righteous democracy and capitalism over socialism and communism in jungles and war tattered nations half a world away.

This time America needed to do so for itself, for its people, for the civilians. That was the would be excuse, their small reasoning: to save the lives of our people. It didn't matter who had been the masters, the enslavers. It really didn't matter. All that did matter was that the innocent needed to be saved, and damn anyone else that would argue with the method.

Japan had only lost a handful of its citizens to ISIS during the beginning of the "Forever War"; the hopeless nickname of the ISIS-NATO War, and although they had the constitutional constraints to deal with those losses unfortunately at the time, America had no excuse as they sustained the same in spades more.

Again, they had no excuse to not go out, and this time they would do something about it. If not for anything else but to honor the memory of the dead innocent lost because of nothing done decades ago.

Honor was not proper currency in the sane world though. Not with politics and military power instead trumping over honor as the Empire had found out… As Japan had found out in a 1945 a long time ago.

Pierce had curled his hand before slamming it down on the console, the operator next to him being spooked, the shockwave echoing throughout the Americans as the JSDF slowly looked at the colonel in confusion. He spoke through his hands at the radio receiver he gripped. "Broadcast on all stations this net."

"Affirmative sir." the operator had said, tuning in to every American radio frequency within the Special Region.

"This is Overlord Actual to all US Military units. We have confirmed Imperial status on slaves and have confirmed American slaves are present in the AO. As of Zero-two-zero-zero hour, all forces are standing by on DEFCON 2. I repeat. To all US Military units within the Special Region, DEFCON 2. We are on war footing. Report to your company commanders at once and prepare for mobilization. All orders must come from American officers and command authority from here on in. Disregard JSDF command unless outright stated by your commanding officers. Authenticate Ulysses." he had dipped his head down to the console before looking up at the room, the blue screens on the wall opposite of him staring back as if they had been the eyes of an all knowing jury. _**"May God have mercy."**_

* * *

How brazen Overlord had been to say that right next to the leader of the Special Task Force as the command staff had relocated into the situation room.

Still, he didn't mean to leave the Japanese behind. America's military just worked best when operating alone, without restraint. An American military that could show off its full strength had been both the bane of the world and its savior. No one could argue that American military might and tactics had been unparalleled in practice, however one could argue about the right and wrongs of their usage throughout the world.

Nor on the flipside could America ignore its own history: beat back by rice farmers and tribesmen with ancient rifles and Kalashnikovs in wars that the rest of the world had given up on.

Still, America had been the bastard as it was today as it had been back then in some form, and here Pierce had to use it as he declared the rising of a Defense Readiness Condition. He, technically, wasn't one to declare it. It was just him reporting it as an automatic response, already cleared with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President if this situation had come to light.

Public interests in the Roman society of slaves had been very much piqued, and any evidence regarding slavery going on would've made the outside world roar for war to free them in the simplest, most brutal fashion. It was always more complicated than just killing masters and breaking chains however.

"General Hazama, have you gotten the same reports I have?" Pierce had looked up from the console he had been looking over, the helicopters all mobilizing and rearming for combat missions. Hazama hadn't heard Pierce as a report from Ambassador Suguwara and Lieutenant Itami had blasted through the Japanese staff and consoles in their portion of the situation room.

It was the same report, and Hazama and the Japanese staff had all paused and looked at the Americans in horror. America had just declared their independence, like the guard yard dog whose chain had been cut loose.

The supposed owner of that dog had felt the same as any dog owner would when said dog was going after a car, a child, a hunk of meat hanging from a tree.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Hazama had yelled aloud in the cold, dark room, the JSDF and the Marine security on site very, very slowly, thumbing the safeties on their rifles and shotguns. "You are willing to throw away everything we've worked for after the discovery of _**just another casualty**_?!"

"Just another?!" Pierce had sputtered, he hadn't expected that response. "Lieutenant General Hazama! There are currently citizens at risk right now, had we known this information from the very start we would've came here hours after we beat them back!"

The thought of an entire American Marine division storming through Tokyo streets mere hours after the Ginza Incident hadn't sit well with Hazama, but he knew that America would've done it.

Hazama had ignored his words for a second as he turned away from his air force aide. "Get the Minister of Defense alerted."

On the other side the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President had already been alerted via short text message.

The new President, President Fletcher, would not have his first hundred days be uneventful if the Special Region had anything to say about it.

For now however had stood two militaries, one having already, regionally, declared war outright.

The old declaration, made days after the September 11th attacks in what seemed like centuries ago, a different world away, which had declared America's war against terror was still in use today.

The world had hardly believed America would even try and use such an old declaration, but even here, they did against this loosely defined terror of slavery of their own people.

For but a second Japan had known what Iraq, Afghanistan, and Iran had felt as America declared war on their soil.

But what could they say really?

They were here on the auspices of being the conquering heroes: the moral crusaders from a modern world to a land in the comparative dark ages. To them, this Empire had been nothing to them but a place to expand… As if God himself had given them a rich land exclusively.

The Japanese and the Americans, on paper, had wanted the same thing: for the Empire to kneel and admit its wrong doings while the people responsible for Ginza were brought to justice. However Japan would be the one stuck with the new world and they had thought it was only right that they would decide how it was to be used.

There was once an old American doctrine which described the belief that the Americans were supposed to, gifted by God some said, to expand…

The American command staff in the room had distracted themselves from the drama by putting on their head sets and getting to it.

 _"This is Assassin to Assassin fireteams through sections one to five, reconvene at either Cato Village or Camp Kilgore's helicopter pool. Your company commanders will advise you with additional details as soon as possible. I repeat…"_

" _Commander Mercury, Commander Mercury, this is Assassin, are you receiving, over?"_

" _What is it, Marine?"_

" _We're going to need your best translators from your police to split off, contact Sergeant Major Freeman."_

It was almost as if the Japanese had disappeared as the talk of command and ritual had erupted amongst the American radio operators, the Japanese left behind.

This was the curse of fighting wars with Americans. Every war that came to be fought with them, in some way, became an American War.

In the world that they had lived in the American military had still held the title of the most powerful fighting force known to man. In the last twenty years it had been because, not through perpetual build up as it had grown during the Cold War, but rather due the grit and graves made in the sands half a world away. This American military had been a different beast than the one that promised Enduring Freedom: the only promise that America had made in its wars since 2015 had been was that justice would be paid in blood.

Through drones, through satellite-originated strikes from a hundred miles up, through the steel beasts of the armored corps, and, if the enemy had been so unlucky, the tired and unforgiving infantry that always led the coalitions of the willing, the unlikely, the Arabs, and the damned.

Argue people still did, regarding that superiority, but when it came down to statistical fact, America had been the one that killed in its name the most. How many nations would be willing to do the same in the name of peace and prosperity? How many would argue their place in history as the conquering heroes of an entire people and region?

Would the Finnish send a generation to die in the sands of Basra? Would the British have been there pushing a counter-offensive during the North Korean onslaught? Or could the Chinese instead replaced America in its war on terror, if Bin Laden had concentrated his efforts there? Which nation would gladly take the blame, the brunt, the constant threats and attacks America sustained willingly?

There were countries that had been dragged into these American Wars on their own auspices of peace: Germany, France, Iraq and Kurdistan, the embers of a British Empire throughout the world, the unwilling; but the long term of history would always look back on wars on whether or not they had been American Wars.

The all-encompassing concept: every fight needed to be their fight, for better or worse, that was the path America had chosen, and here it was no different.

And America had dared the world for someone to take their place; had pleaded and begged. And all they got was the echoing rhetoric of a world unwilling to bare the weight of Pax Americana.

Here, between Pierce and Hazama as the comms were connecting to a video conference to Yokota AB, Pierce had made that dare: "If you won't let us save our people, will you?"

"Orders are orders, Colonel Pierce, _**stand down**_." Hazama had bitten back.

The JSDF had never been open to the fact that America had a fortified military installation in the Special Region, the public had always assumed that the JSDF and the Marines shared bunks, but Italica and Camp Kilgore had been a rather exclusive American affair, where America had carved a piece of itself into the heart of the people and where the JSDF could not tear it back out.

America had no right establishing a base here, even if the locals had clamored for it after the disaster of Italica.

That's what the Japanese had thought, but wouldn't admit.

A portion of the giant LCD screen on one side of the situation room had whined for a second as the video was synced, drawing the attention of the room to the corner it inhabited as it spoke.

" _The order which Pierce is acting upon is a direct order from the former commander in chief, upheld by the current one. I am only following the orders of my president, Lieutenant General Hazama._ " his voice had been accented, perhaps lighter toned than a man of his rank had supposed to wield, but he had never been the yelling sort, never been the push came to shove. His was a voice that you never heard until it was too late. The comm screen had been put up in the situation room, and there in the situation room on the other side had been a menagerie of men and women in their uniforms, centered on the man that spoke from the other side.

Pierce nodded as it went on. "General Andrade."

He nodded back as he crossed his arms, his new general's uniform around him snug, as if he had been in one all his life. His golden eyes had been resolute as he talked plainly, "Seeing as the earthquake had been happening my staff has already been congregated, however it seems as if we have another situation on our hand."

Hazama had been torn between the two American officers. "What?! This is an outrage! What right do you Americans have mobilizing for a war on Japanese soil?!"

"According to the UN, the Special Region is not territory of the State of Japan."

"Going on without us is quintessentially declaring open war on this Empire! You would have the American people go to war with another people like this?!"

Andrade had played the stern parent role very well. "According to the New War Powers Resolution, the US President has thirty days to inform Congress that he has committed armed forces to military action. Contingency Plan Base-Two takes no more than two weeks."

"Base-Two?"

"Contingency Plan Base-Two: in the case that civilians from our world are put at hazard, we would act the same as we had during Ginza and take the necessary steps to secure their safety. Basically this plan is acting on the same urgency of which Ginza called for."

"There are more?"

Pierce nodded. " _ **Classified**_ , lieutenant general."

That word burned into Hazama's ears. "Secrets?! Even here?! Behind our backs?" the intensity of Hazama's accusations had echoed throughout the room. For better or worse, the JSDF guards in ear shot had tightened their hands around their duty weapons. The Americans in the room had done the same, both sides trying to do so as subtly as they could.

The absurdity of what had been happening, many did not believe it: scared for their lives as the two officers played the part of America and her coalitions of the damned.

Japan would not be so relegated to such a position so easily, not after all that America had done to the world. They wouldn't let it happen to them. They were better than that. They wouldn't be yet another country that would stand by as America had crossed the line once more.

"You don't think we have our own contingency for this type of situation, Pierce? That we are so inept in war and organization that we do not take into account civilians at hazard?!"

The JSDF had been mroeso conscious of civilians than the Americans. Both foreign and domestic, Japan would have to live here. That had been the ignorance of America in the Special Region. It was a familiar feeling however to the American Armed Forces.

"You don't think we are capable of saving lives when it's all we've done for the last thirty years?!"

"While you Americans for the last thirty years have gone around the world and killed millions?! All while trying to save your own people?! Freedom?! Democracy!? We will not stand for this!"

"Then what, pray tell, was your contingency?!" Pierce had matched the man's yelling volume.

His answer had been this: a copied answer from a second war. The falling of bombs on a capital in the night with pinpoint ordnance. The initial steps to a full on shooting war against a nation whose army and political government had been decapitated.

The name of this had been Shock and Awe.

And Japan had thought it right.

As Hazama had given his answer he had said it like it was a morally right plan, a complete, wholesome plan which could do no wrong.

But that was the same tone that America had used when Iraqi Freedom had kicked off and F-117s started dropping guided bombs on Baghdad.

 _ **It was the same.**_

"Decapitate the government?! Only for ours- yours to take its place?"

"It's what you did." The accusation, the silence, the realization that Japan had acted in America's image. They had wanted to make this war their own: to claim it.

They seemingly wanted to make a Hell of their envisioning just as America had.

Hazama went on. "Applied to a culture that is much more primitive than Iraq's ever was, the elimination of this leadership will wipe the slate clean for Japan to exert its responsibility on these people in the follow up. This strike will be our message."

 _"This is Mobius One, I have eyes on two fast movers dusting off from the strip, how copy, over?"_ Noelle had reported on the quick scramble of the F-4s, both of them burning their engines hot away from the Corridor.

"Mobius One, escort them with your squadron, I want them back on the tarmac." Pierce had shot out quick.

"Belay that order." Hazama had shot back.

"Roger Overlord." It had been clear who Noelle had listened to as the radar screen's green blips representing Mobius squadron had taken in chase after the much faster F-4s.

"Pierce!" Hazama had yelled his name as he stood still, defiant.

"Hazama." Andrade had interrupted again.

"What?!" Hazama had thrown his words at Andrade, the man surprised he had been talked to like that. Hazama had always been good to his men to politicians, to leaders who had no idea what war was. Hazama was not talking to a man who had known only bureaucracy or politics however. He was talking to a man who had lived as a veteran of the _**entire**_ War on Terror. "Do you seriously believe that this unconfirmed report of slaves fully justify this course of action?!"

Andrade held in his tongue as he recomposed himself. "To my knowledge we don't have any Americans missing in Japan at the moment, however we'll crosscheck with the casualty lists from Ginza and run those numbers again. But right now Pierce, Lieutenant General Hazama, I can only take these rumors of an American slave with a grain of salt. However seeing as there exists a Japanese slave that, according to my reports is in custody of the Rangers, I believe our current contingency plans stay in place. _**The original plan did not discriminate**_ between nationalities of the slaves, and this plan does not end with the Empire falling apart because of indiscriminate strong arming."

Pierce had raised his hand. "Hazama, there is nothing wrong with your plan." he paused as Hazama looked at him oddly. "That is if you are actually invading this Capital and intend for war."

Yanagida had slinked out from Hazama's shadow. "You are mobilizing over a thousand men for combat operations, Colonel Pierce, what do _**you**_ intend to do?"

Sevson responded quickly. "It's not war, if that's what you're asking."

A police action, an intervention, it was anything and everything at once. Japan knew better.

Whatever it was, it was clearly an overstep of the Japanese authority.

"And you don't think that the JSDF will allow you to stay? That Japan as a nation would allow this?"

Andrade's voice has gotten dark, grumbling, knowing, as if speaking from the very pit of a sandy hell. "It's not up to the JSDF to tell us whether or not we can leave, Lieutenant General Hazama. If leaving were so easy, we would've never stayed in the Middle East. Like it or not, we're here to stay. Not because we want to, but because these people _will never let us,_ _ **or you**_ _, go_."

Pierce had pointed at Hazama, and then to the operators in the situation room, all of them as if accusing them.

"You are Japan's finest: its saviors during disasters both manmade and otherwise. Its defense force. You are soldiers. Do what soldiers do, **and save your people**. If America didn't need to do it, we wouldn't. Not anymore."

And then they were all _**hypocrites**_.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _It's the lesson of Vietnam, the lesson of Iraq, and we should have learned it by now._

 _United States President Barack Obama, regarding America's strategy of military interventionism in the Middle East during his final State of the Union, 2016_

* * *

"To think if we weren't here, you would've gone ahead and done this?!" Sevson's New Jersey snap had been directed, the man pointing at Yanagida.

It was surreal to hear American military officers talk like that, especially after the world had turned around on America and condemned what it did to start the Middle Eastern collapse a long time ago in 2004 with the bombing of Baghdad.

"Is it not okay?" Yanagida had asked honestly, Andrade cringing. He flew over Iraq during Shock and Awe. "I am sure our slaves would be recovered during the peace talks. Sending a strong message now would ensure they would-"

"Stop." Andrade had put his finger down on the wooden table he was behind.

America was never able to save any of its ISIS captives in time because of such rhetoric.

"The only guarantee that we have in recovering our citizens is not by blowing up a governmental building, but by actually getting out boots on the ground." Pierce had pointed at a map of the Special Region, highlighted markers denoting where combat teams were going. There were over two dozen sites.

"Respectfully, Lieutenant General Hazama, Lieutenant Yanagida." Andrade hadn't stopped his pose, his eyes glaring into the screen, his mouth hidden behind his clasped hands. "How many Imperials has the JSDF killed today? Yesterday? This last month?"

"Our estimates say around 400,000."

"We have killed millions for less, Yanagida. We have destroyed the lives thousands in this last month simply aiding you. If you would only argue now, we would know that you're objectives here have always been a lie. _You never wanted to save people_."

"Such a crass accusation, General Andrade." Yanagida had always been one for words that undercut.

" _ **Then prove me wrong**_." Silence, the dare, the proposal by Pierce. "Please, by God, prove me wrong."

Andrade had spoken again. "Do you really think we're going to kill millions just so we could save a handful of people? At the end of the day that is your decision, but we will make ours here to do what we must to save our own."

Of the new generations of Americans, Andrade, in the elder section, had been one of them. If not a man who lived in that new generation, but as a man in the generation behind it: another lost American generation that did what it needed to do to survive the first quarter of the twenty first century.

He had long gone past the light at the end of the tunnel and now he had instead stared back into the dark.

Pierce had dug his nails so far into his palms he had just barely drawn blood, stinging his senses. "We are on a mission, General Hazama. You can either support us or get out of our way, but if we find a dead American, that will be on Japan's hands."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Outside of Corridor Airspace– Angels Seven –**_

 _ **Ten minutes until contact with Imperial Capital**_

* * *

 _ **"Come on you lousy bitch! Move!"**_

Noelle never was one to complain about his gear, but when the information was given to him by his AWACS regarding why the F-4s were scrambled he had been yelling at his aircraft as it was a stubborn horse.

The F-18s were of the older sort, literally having last saw action when the Forever War had kicked off and then immediately mothballed for the F-35s to take hold of America's inventory with the F-22.

In the Special Region that had meant the F-4s had around 300 miles per hours more on top of the F-18, the Phantom having set many speed records during its time in the service with America. Japan would use that power today to outrun their rather ironic pursuer.

The numbers on the F-4s had been 320 and 680.

Noelle had mocked dogfight them all the time, and they had a bone to pick with him. That bone was about to be picked with declaring war on a whole world. All eight Hornets had been in full afterburner, it didn't take long for them to break the legendary 767 mile per hour wall that had sent a cone of vapor around their nozzles and for the ticking on their watches to be the only sound heard in their cockpits.

They had broken the sound barrier just a few seconds after the Japanese, having long cleared Corridor airspace over the dark world and pushing over the mountain range to the capital, the shock cones having formed and been blasted away as a sound resounded for miles around.

It was the sound of thunder.

No matter how fast the Hornets went however it wouldn't be enough to catch up to the Phantoms. At least not peacefully.

Noelle had held his breath as the rest of his pilots started grunting in the strain of afterburn, sinking into their seats as the world blew past them: gunning for the pair of engine lights in the distance that had been threatening to bomb a capital.

"Mobius One to Rapier One! You read?!" he said fast, frantically.

The Harriers had been already over the Capital covering the Medevac flight, a GSDF chopper having been deployed to the Bessera Estate to pick up Blackburn, RCT3, and Suguwara.

"Copy Mobius One, say status!" for a second Noelle had considered ordering his pilots to change frequencies, but it was no matter.

"Bearing down on two JSDF fast movers towards vector zero-five-zero! Cover your airspace, shoot them down if they past into your AO, how copy?!"

"You don't have the balls to shoot me down, Noelle." God had taunted him as the F-4s kept up their own afterburners. He was the lead element, the JSDF squadron leader.

"This is Rapier One, copy all!"

"Come on! Turn tail and RTB God! You can't possibly believe this is right!"

"It's gonna be like Baghdad all over! What could possibly go wrong?!" Baron, God's WSO, had laughed.

"Oh son of a bitch! Pierce! Get them to drop their bombs! _**NOW!**_ "

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega – Joint Marine/JSDF Command**_

* * *

Andrade's rigid, worn face had looked through at the commfeed from Yakota, staying on top of the situation, even as the world on the other side seemed to implode form the outside in.

He ran through his trimmed curled hair as he blowed out aggravated. He was a pilot once: he knew what the payload of the JSDF F-4s could do. What using such an indiscriminate, tactically meaningless strike meant for the politics of the JSDF and Japan.

They're using this as their god damned own sandbox! Andrade had thought as he had brought two of his fists down on the table in frustration.

They had come too far as a people to resort to this. Not again. He was there during Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom, flying his Mudhen over the sands of a damned land. How many explosives had he contributed to the chaos? How responsible was he for the Highway of Death? The end of Iraq and Afghanistan?

He saw it again, transpiring on Hazama's face on the other side of the screen, in another world.

And in his heart, in his blood, the rage of an old man who had lived a long life in wars beyond comprehension, had stared right into the commlink with such reverent disgust it had paused the two arguing commanders as Noelle's request had desperately screamed through the radio.

Andrade's cold eyes flashed. "General Hazama. What tactical significance does the Imperial Senate hold?"

"It serves as a retaliation target for the atrocit-"

"What is the tactical worth of bombing a monument of the people's hard labor, of government and the republic, to the JSDF?!" Andrade stood up in the dark situation room on the other side of the Gate, the screen on his side illuminating his face.

Emerson wasn't the only one who could play devil's advocate. The Devil himself spoke.

"You're letting your emotions, _**your sense of justice**_ , take over your command, Hazama. If you attack that Senate, you will be the instigators this time, and the United States of America will not back the aggressor in the event of war."

And in the dark, out from behind Andrade, stood a major.

The man was white, he was in the latter half of his thirties, but his eyes, his face, had spoken to a thousand years' worth of war.

The right side of his face had looked like sandpaper, his jaw had been bent askew by a subtle degree that had made him look like the definition of disgruntled. Andrade had vocalized, shown his anger, but for this mysterious man in the background who had the dress uniform of an American Army man, a Delta Operator.

His face was a tall, his body a built and maintained one. He was the definition of an American soldier that had fought in the Middle East, and every inch of skin he had shown had reeked of it.

He stepped forward and spoke in a hard, indescribably cold voice. "The meaning of justice is fluid. A professional soldier never brings justice into battle. Those who have to hold onto the meaning of morals and subjective feelings, emotions, in war are the ones who are most dangerous to his fellow comrades. Soldiers act only on objectives and missions, not anything else. Stand down, General Hazama."

The light that had emanated from the screen had highlighted the tag on his shirt that spoke his last name. Pierce's eyes had widened as he recognized finally who that figure was, and for the first time in the Special Region, he had trembled. That black and white tag on his chest had spelled out only one thing: WALKER.

He had no right to know that name, he didn't, but Pierce had remembered where he had known him from: a mission in Kabul gone wrong. More specifically it had been the day Afghanistan had been lost.

He had been just a regular officer back then, evacuating people from Kabul as ISIS had closed its grip with their units scavenged from the Iraqi and Afghanistan National Army. The Russian and Coalition airstrikes couldn't beat back the tide as his Marine unit and an Army infantry battalion was slated to hold until relieved.

It was a high priority operation; the equivalent of Operation Frequent Wind in Afghanistan. ISIS wouldn't have showed any mercy to the likes the Vietnamese had showed when Saigon fell. The last of America's operating forces in Afghanistan had been there at Kabul, either escaping themselves or holding the city. That had meant there were Deltas operating within the city in tandem with regular grunts, the last pilots, naval men, infantry, Marines, National Guard, and anyone who had come to associate with America come to Karzai International in the hopes of seeing another day; a day where Afghanistan had fallen and they had survived.

The commanding officer in charge of the evacuation had been a Colonel John Konrad.

History would repeat itself for Konrad, Colonel Pierce had known, but in 2019, a decade ago, he had started the two part story of the Damned 33rd.

Fighting in Kabul had been fierce, the same as Fallujah, Baghdad, Sinjar and Mosul, however there had been no fallback point this time around. Stories of hand to hand fighting, Marines being slashed down by machetes and rusty blades persist above the use of white phosphorus and napalm to stop the advance, numerous civilians getting caught up in the fighting.

For every bomb dropped on them however, the Islamic State had pushed back one bullet, one block, and one body at a time.

As American units were caught behind enemy lines as the evacuation started, many Delta Operators had been sent out for SAR. One of them had been led by a then Lieutenant Martin Walker.

The unit that needed saving had been Pierce's.

The cookie had never crumbled like it had to though, as had been the story throughout the Middle East with America's involvement, even down to the foxhole or the holdout room of a Marine squad. Walker's team and Pierce had found themselves in the same unwinnable hell until, out of the blue, the commanding officer of the operation himself had made it to them with a contingent of the 33rd, and saved them and any other units behind enemy lines.

Konrad had saved his men, but sacrificed the airport and civilians because of it, that contingent being gone long enough for insurgents to make it to the airport terminals and slaughtering unprepared evacuees, both civilian and military.

Konrad had acted out of orders, dragging the Lieutenant Walker's bloodied form back a near half-mile to the waiting evacuation choppers, now suddenly without evacuees due to the fact they were all dead.

Pierce and his Marines had been covering them all the way in a back pedal, and he had saw the madness on the two of their faces as they realized what they had allowed happen.

Pierce and Walker, they had never spoken as human beings to each other, only soldiers with language befit to allow them to survive in the tactical hell they were in. However Walker's name had been emblazoned into Pierce's mind. Not as the man who tried to save him, but the man who made Konrad go out and make the post-action report from the colonel read this as its first words:

 _"The attempted evacuation of Kabul ended in complete failure."_

The evacuation of Kabul had been the colonel's great failure, and not even a few months later as Dubai had fallen Konrad had volunteered with his entire unit to help evacuate another city in the Middle East. As if he was redeeming himself.

There had been no redemption to be found in Dubai however. That was what Pierce had known from his bare understanding of his briefing on Dubai just prior to entering the Special Region.

High Command, and more specifically, Agent Mitchell Beckett, had wanted him to understand about the implications of trying to do good to a people who did not want you there, if that had so happened to be the case in the Special Region.

With that he had known who Walker was and had been.

And it scared him that he had spoke here, in this situation.

"If you bomb that senate _, if you attempt to bomb that senate_ , I make no promises to the course of the action America will take from there." Walker had cut through, his arms crossed, his point made as he stood behind Andrade.

"The troops need this, my people." Hazama had still bit back. "There's nothing negative that could drastically endanger the Special Task Force by taking this course of action!"

"Your troops, your people." Pierce's guard had stood behind their Colonel, the Americans in the situation room in Arnus standing defiant. " _ **Not mine.**_ It brings no solace in the long run. It only brings pain and vengeance: a marker for all the pain we have brought, and will bring, inevitability."

"Just let it happen Pierce, America is not in charge of this operation. This is Japan's mission, not yours and we will live with our decisions!" An ally wouldn't let another repeat past mistakes. "I will not have such condescending actions happen before me as-"

America, when prompted, and the world had hated it, for it, always got what it wanted through any means possible.

And so Pierce had sucked in the air into his lungs, and made his peace. His soldiers were behind him, and that was all that he needed. " _ **Mobius One. You are cleared to engage!**_ "

" _ **Wilco! All Mobius elements you are cleared hot!**_ "

 _ **"Alright! Alright! Call them off!"**_

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Outside of Capital Airspace – Angels Seven – Three minutes until contact with Imperial Capital**_

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle never heard the call off, never heard Hazama beg for America to not do what it did best, all he had heard that he was cleared to fire. Then again, Pierce had never said for him to cease fire as the sprawling mass of the burning, crumbling capital was in the foreground.

Now or never, hell or highwater.

 _ **"Over their cockpits, now!"**_ Noelle had yelled as he flipped his master arm on.

 _ **"Guns, guns, guns!"**_

 _ **"What the fuck?!"**_ The Americans had did it, they had opened fire.

Just as the Americans had seen the Arabs as just one entity, insurgents and insurgents to be, the world had done the same with America. The very title of American was the sign hung around the throat of every one of its people, and they would be called just "another" American for all time, and everything that an American did will be for them to take blame for.

The JSDF fighters had blamed the Americans as they broke, contrails drawing on their wings in the gooey blue sky, twenty millimeter tracers flying across the sky and making their mark against the backdrop of a new dawn.

"This is Rapier One we are keeping a barrier CAP established in front of Capital Air Space. To JSDF fighters we will splash you if you cross this line!"

" _ **Run. Them. Down!**_ " Noelle's voice had growled through his mask, two fighters on each on Phantom's tail as they peeled off from one another, popping flares and dropping their external tanks.

He had been on the ass of the F-4 whose pilot had the callsign of "God". Mobius two had dropped behind flight lead and God as Noelle's Hornet hit afterburner, following the tail of the F-4 so closely that he had almost felt his face melting by staring into the two flames that erupted from its engine.

Again his guns had spun up and burped a long line of tracers, making more than apparent that the next burst might've not been so flagrantly tossed around.

Elsewhere the other Hornets had been hugging the tail ends of the Phantoms without rest, the contrails drawn in the morning sky erratic, dangerous, and desperate.

The American pilots had trained with the Japanese, both now and back from before the Gate had opened. They knew every trick in their book, just as, in the grand scheme of things, General Macarthur had intended in a 1945 so long ago.

Japan, in some small way, still cursed America for being the victor so long ago, relegating down a path dictated by them and the West.

The Japanese pilots had been as much full of ego as any self-respecting fly boy, and that had extended down to their nationalism.

They would kill for their country, however America had killed for less, and here they had been trying to shake off death itself as America revealed its true nature and told them to stand down.

To Japan, to the world, America had been a harbinger of all that was right and wrong with western civilization when the microscope was aimed on it. Any meaning could've been drawn from it, any detail, any purpose. America was the hero, the villain, the target, the savior. The man that went bump in the night or the destroyer of cultures and sanity.

Because of it America was always presented with problems, questions, that the world had brought before them. Though they weren't always intended for the Americans, they still had tackled it. America had one, universal answer above all it would use to confront those problems: one that drove them into conflict with concepts such as hunger and poverty, terrorism and communism among others. A single statement that challenged a greater purpose than them, and they had paid because of it.

However, as the Japanese F-4s had learned as they streaked across the sky trying to get the Americans off of them so that they could decapitate an entire civilization, the response to their doing of that had been written in the tracers, in the yells, in the orders for them to stand down.

It was the same answer that America had sworn to abandon, but it was presented to them now as the only response America had ever given in the end:

 _ **War was the motherfucking answer.**_

* * *

Two minutes of tail chasing had felt like years to the hunted, but Noelle had given them one final option as he had finally armed his heatseekers, the F-4's systems whining as the warning came across their cockpits: "Drop your payloads, now! I don't want to see any of that shit on your bellies when we carry you back."

Hazama had heard his demand and all he could do was cringe and look at Pierce as he went with Noelle's judgement. There would be no bargaining, no argument. "680, 320, drop your payloads, RTB."

"You can't be serious!"

 _ **"They will kill you if you don't."**_

For all the shit that the JSDF pilots had thrown in the way of the American pilots, when shove came to shoot, there would be no hesitation. Not with Noelle, not with his squadron of Korean War vets. Not with Rapier, who had dropped gallons and gallons of napalm on two hundred thousand people and watched them all burn.

Not with pilots who had flown over the valley of death and feared no evil, for they had been the owners of that valley.

It wasn't a matter, in his mind, whether or not America would or would not kill him and his co-pilot. It was a matter if he had given them an excuse.

"Then let the Americans kill me! The international community-"

"That's an order, God. Drop your payload. We've already declared a war today. _**No need to start another.**_ "

He vomited in his mask, heaving into his cockpit as he tried to recollect himself, his co-pilot taking the reins instead and wisely answering. "….Roger."

Across the sky, explosives and fuel tanks had fallen to the ground, unarmed, unprimed, whole. The GBU-24s that the F-4s had carried out had been American ordnances, high tech, highly destructive: used against bunkers six meters below the ground in concrete tombs.

Every bomb was a technical marvel within itself, and perhaps it was a mistake just dropping them inert, to bury themselves in the dirt, in a pond or a lake, as was the case of one of the two, and to stay there as history unfolded without them.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega**_

* * *

The Ranger choppers had finally set down to a waiting cadre of not particularly happy looking JSDF grunts and medical personnel. Like so many videos and images of operators disembarking choppers after missions, the Rangers had gotten out and walked like they owned the place, if only before encountering Yanagida as the medical personnel took Noriko and Black away. Loke and Harris had escorted the two as they split off from the standoff that was developing.

"I'm gonna need you to relinquish your gear on the grounds of _**civilian casualties**_ , Captain Emerson." the request had barely made an impact as Emerson store through the goggles of his helmet, his face mask covering the rest of his face.

If Yanagida could've seen it he would've seen Hell and disbelief in human form.

" _ **That's not happening.**_ " he answered defiantly, noting his tone, holding his M16A2 close to his chest. "We're reporting to Colonel Pierce and if he deems it necessary that we disarm than we will follow, but standing orders are that my only command is American."

He didn't have time for this, and his Rangers knew, the remaining elements suddenly turning their backs and covering their sectors as they stared right into the eyes of those who dared. For the first time in nearly a century, Japan had seen the form of Americans who had started a war without pity and had every intent to ride it.

Emerson pressed his bloody palm against Yanagida's chest, a hand print left as he pushed down, hard: this was Zorzal's blood. "Why do you _really_ want us to disarm, lieutenant?"

He had pushed him forward as the man backpedaled, his hand never leaving his chest as the featureless head of Emerson looked at Yanagida and deserved an answer. The constant pressure against his chest had not let Yanagida answer as the group moved, the GSDF grunts surrounding them as they made their way to the main command building, Yangida the unwilling pointman, walking backwards as Emerson guided him with his bloodied palm.

He had never seen the Rangers like this: their faces covered, their eyes hidden behind goggles and glasses. They all became one and lost their humanity to him as they flanked him, Emerson pushing him through the door as the GSDF boots were stunned.

"Are you scared of me, lieutenant?" His voice echoed through the halls, muffled through his balaclava. "Do you have the mettle to tell me that what I did in the Capital was wrong? That I should've died? Become a martyr for this Special Task Force?"

"You're out of your jurisdiction. All of you!"

"We all are. At least we aren't lying to ourselves about it."

The levels of antagonism that Hitman had reeked of as Yanagida was shoved away, the Rangers making a B-line to the control room, had been unprecedented. No one had ever seen them like that before. Almost as if the rage of thirty years' worth of war had been harnessed into their very being and used indiscriminately.

"You think that America is the only one that's ever bled for a worthless cause? We can't all be heart bleeds! We'll do it right this time!"

* * *

Without the drama of the command staff, the JSDF and the Marines had traded blows as the Marines had inexplicably split off from disaster recovery efforts to board the helicopters coming down to pick them up for some unknown mission that, when asked, they wouldn't divulge any information about.

Marines, being as lippy as they were, had perhaps caused a few pushes and shoves to come and go as the realization of an American and possible more Japanese slaves were discovered through the contingency. They were disgusted at the fact the Japanese were doing nothing about it save celebrate the once they found out a flight of F-4s had been sent out to bomb the Capital.

That enthusiasm for blood and war had gone away once they realized the Marines were deploying for more purposeful combat ops without them.

Pierce, Hazama, Sevson, and Yanagida weren't the only ones in the command room getting heated, many of the lower officers squaring off in their own words of war and peace below, but the tension would be cooled by progress: and that had to be due to the fact Japan would have to play along with America for now, Pierce and Hazama simply going to the center map console and laying out the plans for what this contingency actually was.

Yanagida had been sent out to escort the Rangers, there was much to be debriefed upon for them.

"The contingency was this: We will not lay siege to the Imperial Capital as you seem to think. It's not even a war. Think of it more as a police action, lieutenant general." Pierce explained tiredly.

"Do explain." Hazama had looked at the various Imperial sites on the map, many of them actually within helicopter range of Arnus and the JSDF FOBs.

"Captain Emerson during his travels in the capital happened upon information pointing towards the main mines and human resource trading centers throughout the Special Region and our effective AO. Chances are that we'll either find our people in one of these mines, or at least find documentation regarding them. The Imperials know how to keep records."

"Mines?"

"Correct. Natural resources. Diamonds, gold, salt, the like. Our plan is to go into each of these sites with a strike team and then sweep the area until we find the manager or owners and take what we need from them. In and out. No need to engage the populace, no need to occupy any territory, we will go in, get what we need, and do nothing more."

That was how America would fight their war, and quite frankly Hazama had been a little disappointed. The mention of resources had piqued Hazama's interest, and if Yanagida had still in the room he would've seen the opportunity.

Sevson had already started dividing up the teams on the table, only one platoon per site of interest was really needed. "Once we get a read on our civilians and extract them, we're going to resume Operation Odyssey Ultimatum as planned."

"I'm sorry, lieutenant general, what we do is to save lives as best we can, and we know what to do. I mean, in my personal opinion it is better we do this than have the JSDF deploy this many teams deep in foreign territory."

"My teams will have to accompany you regardless, colonel, if you are going to do this, I'm going to need to have my people with you."

"Watching us?"

"This Special Task Force is comprised of two nations, Japan and America. This is not another one of your coalitions. You are not the ones leading."

"I don't see how adding JSDF soldiers to these raids would be out of step. We'll welcome it."

"Good. We intend to stay at these sites in order to de-slave the workforce there, might as well do it now."

America had no actual plan to start deslaving the society of the Empire save but to do it gradually and from the inside out. It hadn't been too different of ridding the Taliban's governmental influence from Afghanistan. Which was to say it had been impossible when attempted by an outside power.

The world had to accommodate a lot of necessary evils following the collapse of the Middle East: Bashar al-Assad still remaining as Syria's president, the sixty something year old dictator still ruling over a rather stable Syria: a peaceful Syria. In Afghanistan the Taliban and Al-Qaeda were incorporated into the final design of the nation, unable to be removed, America having let the nation be amidst the storm of Iran and then North Korea.

There were bigger battles to fight at that point; newer battles.

This was still the JSDF's first.

"That's your prerogative general, we're only there for a snatch and grab. But if you want to start now, you best get your men loaded up within the next thirty minutes, my company commanders are already setting out and Force Recon has taken up position outside some mines already."

Hazama had blown out tiredly, his moustache flicking in the wind.

"You Americans always were one for Shock and Awe."

Pierce had shook his head as he finally sat down, relegated to the fate of leading the battles to come. "Think of this more as Lightning and Thunder."

* * *

 _ **Japan – Yokota Air Force Base**_

* * *

Andrade had tapped his fingers as he had seen the situation diffuse, more than aware a few of the JSDF in the background had their rifles slightly raised. Japan had been trying him every day, ever since Korea had fallen. The Republic of Unified Korea hadn't been as strong as it once was; not able to lend itself to the Pacific sphere of peace as it used to. Japan's main ally in the region had fallen on hard times, and Japan had taken advantage of that.

In the sea between Japan and Korea had been a rather sizable methane deposit that had been controlled by whoever owned the Liancourt Rocks: a pair of islets between the two countries. Korea had owned the islands officially, however the territory had been disputed all the way till Kim Jung Un's death, and then those two rocks in the middle of the Sea of Japan hadn't seemed as important as the millions of North Koreans marching over the DMZ.

Korea had been in no position to reclaim the islands from the JSDF force, who claimed to have used the islets as an operating base for their own efforts during the Korean War. They never left, and Korea had no power to contest it as Japan started drilling.

America had disapproved of the act, as did the Chinese, but seeing as America had been agreeing with China they had backed down from scolding their ally.

Andrade had been less than complacent however.

He knew what territory really meant, turf. He had been an OG Crip, he knew more than anyone what a corner, a street, a rock, was to someone who owned it. Might had made right during such affairs, but Japan had no right with the way they had taken it.

"I'd rather have you over there, Major Walker." Andrade had said as he clasped his hands together, his chin resting on his thumbs as he looked into the screen. If only one of his old friends could see him now, in the place he found for himself… that very hand clasping had been his signature, after all.

The man behind Andrade had stood over him, not even looking down to address the general. "My orders are to stay here and keep a read on the situation. The Director wanted me to handle things for the agents working on the other end, here."

"Whatever you say, Walker. Don't know what the fuck Agent Beckett is looking for over there, but I won't argue. I've never argued with the Agency, unlike you."

" _ **More**_ than argue, General Andrade."

"Which is why they can't touch you, even after all you've done."

He sniffled as he rubbed his scarred chin, remembering when he had his face deformed and bent the way it had been. The years had gone so fast, it seemed. Time and history had a way of doing that however, and soon enough people who had lost themselves had been forced to live in not only the past, but history.

"It's a comfortable relationship." One that had kept him out of action for decades and left him only to train new recruits.

Several of whom had made their way into the control room on the other side.

The ones that had noticed him through the screen had been the only ones that had truly stood still in fear as the lead Ranger had saw what they all saw and remembered he was the one that had taught them to do as they did in the Capital.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega – Joint Marine/JSDF Command**_

* * *

Walker didn't train them all, he wasn't allowed to, but he had undoubtedly had a hand in Hitman. At least a fifth or so: the top three leading Rangers above all.

" _ **I always wondered what happened to you three."**_

Those words were all that Walker had given as he stepped back into the black and let Andrade have the screen entirely, his eyes glowing from the background observing, as he always did for his Rangers.

Bannon's voice croaked as she lost her breath, stumbling as the grip of Masterson's M4 fell from his hand only to hang off his neck from its sling, Emerson feeling his heart go cold as the Rangers unaffected and the command staff all look at them change from soldiers with a mission to humans in awe.

He was back.

But he never really left for the Rangers, not when they killed the way they killed. He was the one they blamed for what they became. Perhaps, even with him, it was an unfair accusal.

"Captain Emerson?" Colonel Pierce had called out to the stunned Rangers.

Emerson shook himself out of his trance as his two team leads had broken their own captivation with an old face from an older time. This revelation would have to be dealt with later as the Rangers all clacked their heels and saluted.

Hazama had looked at the Rangers in disdain as their bloody heels had denoted what they had done. This look at them had been only after he had looked at Pierce expectantly.

"Rangers, Hazama has orders for you. You will abide by them." the reluctance in his words had made Sevson look away disgusted.

The Rangers all wordlessly looked at the Japanese Lieutenant General. "As of right now you are to disarm and remain on base until further notice."


	28. 2-8C: Lingua Franca

A/N: 250 Follower Bonus.

Enjoy this hold over till Section 2-9.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-8 Charlie**_

* * *

He kept saying those words in that way because it had made his captors mad. Making the Imperials mad had been the only pleasures that the man had now a days, ever since he had been locked up in that Roman-esque dungeon in the middle of the plains that seemed to roll on into the infinite.

Sure, the other Japanese people that had been taken with him had understood his original begging and pleading in the language which he had been born with: the world's lingua franca, however eventually after so much beating his mind hadn't the care to speak a language no one could really understand. He might've as well taken on the language of his heart, his mother and father's. It made no difference but to make his captors question him again and again in a language he did not care to learn or understand.

The spiked club had punched into his well scarred gut again as he blew out some blood from his mouth, laughing.

 ** _"Yah grazh dah neen yahmyehreekee!"_**

Another hit, another spurt of blood, another laugh of madness and wanting.

 ** _"Yah grazh dah neen yahmyehreekee!"_**

The words had been a rather notable paradox, and what he did mean was that he was specifying who he was originally, but that was not seen as he was beaten again and again and again.


	29. 2-9: The Morning After

A/N: I knew that supplemental chapter would raise some hairs. But personally I thought it was a very important hint about the nature of the American slave.

Anyway, review responses:

 ** _OhioPrince_ ** \- I'll take that as a complement?

 _ **Apollonir** _ \- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but what else shall I do but tantalize the readers?

 _ **Drygen**_ \- The concept of Lingua Franca was something I discovered before MGSV made it apparent that it was one of its themes. I came across the term lingua franca while researching Rhodesia before I began to write this story actually: a user in a youtube video displaying Leonardo DiCaprio's Rhodesian accent in Blood Diamond used the term while clarifying what language he was speaking in the movie to the locals. When MGSV came out with the theme of Lingua Franca I learned from it and applied it to how a lack of commonality in general makes America's current state in the Middle East precarious. Do I reference Metal Gear a lot in this story? Yes, but it shouldn't be no more than me using the term CQC, occasionally referring to Masterson as Ocelot, or the throwaway cultural reference for "realism".

As for you saying that chapter was torture porn, well I don't get off to beating the shit out of my most precious OC. But this story is explicit, it doesn't hide anything, and it just builds and builds hopefully on your psyche like a soldier in war.

 ** _waifuismylaifu -_** Here's my rationale for folding Spec Ops: The Line, into this story: The Line was a one shot game, a self contained story taking place in a relatively local area: Dubai. Nothing is declared about the outside world, and its a "timeless" story. Also, perhaps, this is one of the few "relief" details that points out "Hey, this is fiction". As for the history of the world going forward: a lot of it is a worst case scenario, and by god if it feels real it's because it hurts to read, to imagine "This is us in a few years."

Thanks for the comments.

 _ **mcrae1o1nick**_ \- I always intended for some "insider attacks" to happen, and generally this guerilla war to happen, so I have no comments about it. It's normal, I guess. As for the Luger? Wait and see.

 _ **Jex - The Insane One,**_ ManwithaPlan113 - Your reactions are interesting to me, and yous not the only one who has approached me with this attitude, but it's a completely regular response which makes me remember I'm doing something right by making people ask "What would I do?", and y'all giving your answer. Thanks.

 _ **SpaceRicePirate**_ \- Shit, you broke the Russian real fast. But it's a good question to ask: why is he speaking Russian...

 ** _Thuzan117_** \- This brings up a point which I forgot to answer last time to **_Nanozom._** The bombing of the senate infuriated me, and the response by the 7th MEU in the last section was a response reflective of my feelings. I can't remember how many times I watched archive footage of Baghdad being bombed while I was drafting that last chapter: I originally wanted the AC-130 to go in there with the JSDF, but then I stopped and realized: I would be a hypocrite if I justified that happening.

Good analysis with weapons technology, and as for the dragon takedown... well, I'll write it a way that'll make it my own.

 _ **DerBouncer**_ \- I really do appreciate what you have to say, because I always want non-American viewpoints coming onto this story, and yeah, I can imagine the frustration with that convoy story. Also you're in the right to call me out in regards to Emerson becoming a gladiator, but a story is a story, and I'll make the more fantastical moves when I think it's needed. I'll always consider the opinion of reviewers highly when they say I'm painting America to be the absolute good guy, because that's not my intention.

 ** _Mr. Reviewer_** \- I'll clarify at the end of the Act about the OCs and the Special Task Force makeup, but for right now: Mobius and Rapier are Marine fighter squadrons, both of them chasing down the JSDF Phantoms.

 _ **pwashington**_ \- Not ignoring your question on samples, but if I answer it I'll get you all thinking about things I don't want you to.

 _ **jgkitarel -**_ If I can ask, what did you expect walking into this story? Also yeah, you catch onto that dualism rather well.

 _ **Guest, on Diseases -**_ I did have a sentence or two dedicated to the Red Cross and the medical personnel of the JSDF and the Marines just giving people vaccines like it was going out of style, however the LN I think does a better job at specifying at the sanitization of foreign sicknesses and viruses. Apparently the checkpoints at the end of both Gates are pretty extensive by this time in the invasion.

 _ **In General** _ \- For those of you who want to talk one on one with me over instant messaging in regards to this story for any reason, and you'd rather not PM me, slap on this link at the end of the typical skype joining url: rlOE4Njf726N.

Without further adieu, read and review if you want, and welcome to the very beginning of the Flame Dragon Arc, as hosted by, not Captain Emerson, but Lieutenant Itami and Staff Sergeant Lisa Holmes Bannon. That's right folks: it's her show for the rest of the act.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-9**_

 _ **Posted on 2/29/16**_

* * *

Lyncher 2-4 had been the particular call sign for Specialist Valentine. When Godfather had put the designation of Hitman on Emerson during the Ginza Incident it was unanimously decided that most of the combat infantry units of the 7th MEU were to be given designations related to Hitmen, Assassins, or of the like during their tenure in the Special Region.

The Marines didn't mind, it had fit them.

Despite everything he had done in the last few months, and perhaps it was for the best, he was still out on active duty, his prickly shave that covered the bottom half of his face hugging either the dirt or his rifle's stock as he sat in a tree with his spotter. His M21EBR had been braced against the branch overlooking this particular mining site at the base of the mountain range separating the Italica territory from the Capital.

A coal mine. Half of the mines in the operation range of Arnus Hill and the JSDF's FOBs had been coal, the rest an assortment of valuable minerals used for jewelry or the like which kept the trade going.

The mine entrance had been a simple cave at the bottom of a recessed pit where various carts had been coming and going out on a regular basis, several tents and the beginnings of a settlement starting to create itself around the mine.

In truth it looked like something out of North Korea. That was Valentine's comment as he had seen the Marine and RCT team go in after the choppers had landed about a hundred or so meters away from the perimeter with their translator and Italican representative. The Imperial soldiers on post at the mine had been peacefully pacified as the Marines had offered a few sips from their canteens and MREs, the RC team not entirely agreeing as they saw slaves being watched by those same Imperials go on with their labor.

That particular Marine fireteam had been Lumaban's, and she had been, with her confusing combination (to the Imperials) of grit and general niceness, had been led to the mine manager's personal house with the Italican representative for chit chat as the RC Team and the Marines provided further security.

It had been Valentine's job to make sure no surprises had come.

"Foot mobile, direct north west, little hill behind the mine. You read Ryan?"

His spotter had alerted him as he shifted his body and rifle in the called direction

"Eyes on Imperial Officer, Centurion. Maybe the commander of the guard here." he reported.

"ROE designates to engage if necessary. Our call bro." his spotter had been more than aware of their combat parameters at that point. He had been with Valentine during Italica and added his pound of flesh to the kill count.

The Imperial officer's galea had been more than telling of his rank, his horse also being decorated rather elegantly for a footmobile. It was no secret he had been looking down on the Marines and the JSDF in the mine, the JSDF starting to get aggressive with the slave handlers.

He had ridden out there with a purpose, a boy, hidden in the grass, having risen into the two Force Recon operator's sight. The boy seemed to be of the down trodden sort if the rags on his form and the lack of a haircut had said anything. Still, he was having his fun with another child with toy swords.

He used to play soldier too, when he was young. Paintball, airsoft, tae kwon do. Sports were always a metaphor for combat, so he had cut out the middle man and went for the source of the masculine craving.

Behind his kaffiyeh he had smiled for some relatable moment before he had habitually clicked the safety with his index finger before laying it on the trigger guard, his other arm tightening the sling: it having been tied to a branch for stabilizing.

The officer had looked down at the two children and then to the boy, shooing the girl away.

"The hell are you up to?" the spotter had peered through his binoculars, his own marksman rifle not ready.

The officer had lit a rather small torch and gave it to the boy, using his hands to point at an exhaust valve, only to clamp his palms together and then, quickly, breaking them apart with his hands open, his mouth in an oh as if describing a sound effect.

The boy nodded, and after a few coins had fallen from the officer's hands to the raggedy boy's, that had fully garnered Valentine's attention.

Mining, in both worlds, had been long understood as a dangerous game to be played in the vie for natural resources. Many of the Warlord crewmen with their backgrounds had been more than wary of the potential for the Special Task Force to happen upon mining disasters during their tenure in the Special Region, and one of those disasters had been the explosive reaction of flame to concentrated natural gases and methane that were often uncovered during mining operations.

It didn't take much for the raised eyebrow on Valentine's face to wipe away in surprise as he realized that the Emperor's scorched earth policy was still in place, the enemy on Arnus Hill having just found one of the Empire's valuable resources.

The boy was running with his torch toward one of the exhaust valves with a set of instructions that would take lives.

"Again…?" The spotter had been with Ryan a long time, ever since Korea. He had been a part of a then Lieutenant Colonel Pierce's fated unit that broke past behind North Korean lines and stagnated the entire invasion. What that had meant is that this wasn't the first time this particular type of target had been seen in their crosshairs. Child soldiers were often called to fight America across the world in the last three decades to the disgust of the world: in disgust with the people that would use children to kill and be killed, and with America for killing them. "Fuck my life."

"210 meters." Valentine had gotten over his spotter's grimacing to remember what he was supposed to do, even if it would fuck his life up.

It was so easy to refer to the Imperials as Arabs, Muslims, even when they clearly weren't. It was a habit that the Marines needed to bring back: to justify what they were doing. If not for themselves, but for the Japanese. The Marines had been teaching the Japanese of the Special Task Force how to fight: telling them stories from the sandbox that they all had come from, that far into history. It had completely enthralled them, and the actions of America in the Middle East had been very to replicate here, in the Special Region.

Needless to say that the Marines had thought it too late a mistake: like a big brother teaching a sibling the pleasures of fire and irresponsibility.

Valentine had caught himself at the top of his inhale as he held it, looking at the Roman trying to mount his horse through the cross of his scope.

Once, long ago, there had been an interview done with a sniper much like himself. The question had been what exactly a sniper felt when they pulled the trigger on someone. The answer was literal, and it was the same thing that Valentine had felt now:

Recoil.

He felt nothing but recoil.

The Imperials hadn't been as receptive of gunfire as the modern soldiers, none of them really comprehending what the crack was. However the man who that crack was made for didn't have the chance to wonder as the seven six two bullet careened into his shoulder blade before crossing diagonally through his neck, being thrown to the ground as the horse stirred itself and the body off of it.

The boy had hardly stopped and turned around as he had heard the man fall. He didn't stop for his run toward the valve.

The shots that mattered were the worst ones in Valentine's experience, he now realized. To think he once longed for such things as he reoriented the barrel and the scope.

This shot mattered.

* * *

Sergeant Lumaban had snapped her head in the direction of the gunfire as the Marines had carried out a bundle of paper documents from the manager's building, all of the soldiers doing so only to see the body of a single form slip beneath the grass. Myui's representative had long been aware of what gunfire sounded like to frown, the woman's dark grey tail flicking and her feline eyes narrowing.

She held her radio transceiver down. "4-3 Actual, prerogative: Who fired those shots? Over."

Her Corporal Poindexter, a rifleman, had pointed at the pair of ghostly figures having taken position in the highest tree in the area. " _Fuckin' Valentine_."

"Lyncher 2-4. I did. Over." The affirmation.

Lumaban had covered her mouth piece as he looked over to her squad, trying to get a better ID on that form that Valentine had just dropped.

"We didn't see what he saw…" she pressed down back on the radio as the screams of a young girl rang out from the hills. "4-3 Actual. Copy. Out."

* * *

 _ **Six Months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **D-Day + 48**_

 _ **Falmart – Italica – Fromar Keep**_

* * *

They each had their own bedrooms. Myui and Lelei had allowed RCT3 and the Rangers to take the former barracks of the Fromar knights, most of whom had been killed during Arnus and the Battle of Italica.

Almost like high-class dorms with seemingly mile high ceilings, both Loke and Emerson had distinctly commented as they were first introduced to them nearly a month ago. The only real modifications that they had done with them, as they much too elegant to really disturb, was the fact they all had extension cords poking out of their doors for various electrical items.

In short they had lived in six-star tier hotel rooms during their tenure in the Special Region, and they wouldn't complain save for the fact that hallway had become their pseudo-prison.

Hazama had demanded that the Rangers be kept on base instead of sent out with the other combat teams. Pierce hadn't argued, the Rangers had done their job and the Marine combat teams were well and away more than what were needed for the operations happening throughout the Special Region currently.

If it kept the JSDF happy, they were to stay within the Corridor for the foreseeable future.

However on the flipside the most important RCT team would also have to be kept under operational arrest. That RCT being the third one.

With Pierce and his personal platoon acting as the US Marine presence at Arnus, the JSDF had made their presence known through RCT3 at Italica.

It had been a comfortable arrangement for the last month, but there was hardly anything comfortable after the last few hours.

What that had meant for Hitman's premier team lead however was that she had gotten her much needed sleep as her one working eye had slowly opened to the sound of birds and the comfortable hum of the Fromar Halls.

Given the fact she had been in command of Hitman in Emerson's absence she had been appropriately given the second best room and given her privacy when she turned in for the night.

 _"Unconfirmed reports from JSDF officers and the Pentagon state that a massive troop movement is underway inside the Special Region, the journalist and media blackout currently extended until further notice, with only prepared packages of information being let go by the Japanese government. The reason for this reported escalation is, according to our source inside of the Pentagon, connected with the discovery of slaves in the rumored "Roman"-esque society inside the Special Region: the same one responsible for the Ginza Incident. It is unknown the nature of these slaves."_

She woke up to the drone of the same radio she had for the last month: a comfortable voice rousing her awake in her solitary bed.

 _"Russia Today also reports that Chinese ambassadors walked out on the Vietnamese delegation following the breakdown of relations that came with several Chinese naval drones being destroyed in Vietnamese territorial waters followed by an attempted Chinese retaliation strike. The International Community helmed by Prime Minister Dima Degtyarev has strongly pushed for a peaceful solution to the incident, however he has stated his government will remain committed to the Russo-Vietnamese Defense Pact which was renewed in 2019."_

Normally a maid would've been there, but Myui's cohort was strained for numbers following the earthquake, Italica and the Corridor having taken it unkindly. Nothing disastrous, but still, nearly a dozen had been killed within Italica's territory and the hospitals in Italic and Arnus had been busier than usual. Even without the war that was being raged over the horizon at the multiple resource sites of the Empire.

She slept on her left side now, making sure her left eye was deep in the pillow so she wouldn't have to wake up crying again in momentary panic attacks: during the short periods of time after waking up where she forgot she had lost an eye and the replacement wasn't exactly working 100% of the time.

A hand had fallen to silence the radio, and that hand had belonged to a Staff Sergeant Lisa Bannon.

She woke up with a contemptuous groan, not unlike a groan that had told the tale of a person who damned the day for waking them up. She knew better however as a Ranger: duty waits for no-one, and the reporter on the radio had guessed right the situation within the Special Region.

Not that Hazama would allow them to do such duty.

Hitman had to be sacrificed for Hazama to in any way tolerate the outpouring of Marines from the Special Task Force to areas of interest regarding the slaves. With the way the MPs had escorted Emerson, it had almost seemed like they were literally to be sacrificed.

Word from the top down had been that the Rangers that had been in the throne room when the firefight had gone down were to also be processed through debriefing.

Perhaps that was why she had spent an hour after they had gotten back to the Keep wiring all the compiled and edited footage from the GoPros, especially from Ramirez, Doc, Loke, Emerson, and Masterson's, into the documentary as it stood and rendered the first half for the rest of the night as she laid passed out in her underwear on the bed: her fatigues and kit all astrewn at the foot of the bed.

She hadn't remembered when she had been using a spare pillow to hug in her sleep, but she had let go as she ran her hand across her eyes, the left one particularly crusty with its condition as she silently took in the new day.

There was a part of her that was surprised that she woke up in a bed as nice as the one she did. Also there was the bigger part of her that was surprised that she woke up in a bed at all.

Homelessness for a handful of years had not been kind to her, but as she wandered the American MidWest like so many lost souls before her she had seen an America that her parents never intended to let her experience: the run down oil fields of Texas, the faltering ecosystem of the West along with disappearing suburbs and crumbling cities that could barely afford to house the needy and the less-fortunate like her.

Poverty had molded her, the man who had cast her out to the streets had marked that form as she had let the covers fall off of her as she weakly got out of bed and saw the scars of an ex-husband.

Her feet had made small pats against the ground as she walked over to the dresser and mirror where her laptop was: it long having completed the rendering and waiting for a user prompt to continue and close the program, which she did prompt, the computer closing and leaving her looking at herself in the mirror.

There had been a scar across her right shoulder from a hand swipe that had too much nail in it, faded skin along her collarbone from one too many rough appeasements: her back being marred with twisted skin and scars from falls, ranging from her first winter on her own to the battles she had fought now in the Special Region.

It was those old scars she had focused on as she tried to ignore the most obvious one: the one that had punched through her left eye and left almost a slash, a crater, around her lids.

She never remembered exactly when the piece of shrapnel had come and nailed her in the eye. All she remembered was the blackness, the explosion, the concussion that sent her flying during the battle of Italica. She had hardly realized she had a pierced eye uBntil she tried to aim with it and saw a shattered, painful blackness.

Bannon had been a small woman in some aspect: a five foot seven inch form that had been smaller than Emerson and Masterson, but she had been able to pull her weight as the tone and bulge of her arms and back had told.

That very pale form of hers that she had developed to survive had fought against what she had used to be: a modern day fair lady, a yuppie with rich parents.

Now she had been a soldier, and that person had stared right back at her in the mirror as she looked at herself in disdain, running her hands through hazelnut hair that had long since been treated unkindly a quickly growing back out to almost warrant a ponytail.

A damp towel and a bowl of water had been waiting for her at the table, rose petals left in it as she had wrung the cloth and wiped her face over, her new eye stinging momentarily as it was cleaned, the same wiping going down from her face to her neck and exposed skin along her arms. Dirt and grime unseen had collected in the pores of her skin and upon dipping the towel back in it had stained the wash.

Fresh, cold air had rushed into her nostrils as she dried her face with a piece of a robe that had been lying on the dresser. She had been tempted to dress in such Roman attire once or twice in official functions held in the Fromar keep, but her dress uniform would be more familiar to her.

She didn't go for a hair tie as she had reached for the black string and fabric on the dresser as she sat before it. Instead it had been her eyepatch, holding her head down as her fingers had tightened the cup around her eye and laced it behind her head, feeling the strings fall into the creases on her face that had been made by them.

She looked into the mirror again and saw herself and what had become of her.

She wasn't too happy as she gave out a quiet, ragged sigh and saw the dirty water reflect her instead. Masterson had told her that she hadn't been a morning person, and she was inclined to believe him.

"Miss Bannon?" the voice was Persia, highlighted by knocks against the grand white doors.

"What is it hun?" her first words in the morning had always been the ugliest.

"Mister Masterson would like to tell you that the rest of the Rangers are currently congregated in the dining hall if you are curious."

"Mmm. Anything else Persia?" she spoke through the door as she continued to look at herself in the mirror.

" _Are you okay Miss Bannon?_ "

She had gotten up and put the top of her fatigues on, replying the same way to that question she had long since felt the lie to. "Yes hun… thank you."

* * *

"Cameron."

"Lisa."

The short greeting had been done in the dining room of the Fromar Keep, all around several of the Hitmen who had bothered getting up this early cleaning their gear and weapons, several of the maids helping out. It was a rather domestic scene minus the military hardware, Cam at the table typing away at his own report of the events of the night before as best he could, all of them dressed in the desert fatigues of the Marines along with their watch caps.

"You alright?" he asked promptly, sliding over her a cup of coffee from one of Italica's new crops. She had graciously took it as she sat down next to her counterpart, sliding on her black eyepatch.

"Better." she sipped her coffee down once before looking at the dark liquid, noting the swirl of some sort of creamer in it.

It was surreal to the Americans that after all they had done a mere few hours ago, they were once again in Imperial halls. Albeit this time they were doing much more peaceful, routine things. It was in the practice of the routine that had made them forget what horrible things they had done in the not so long ago. It was better to not confront the fact that some had to gun down so many before an Emperor less than twenty four hours after said incident.

The heat had always soothed her long wearied throat, and, just occasionally, it had made it clear as she had coughed into her hand, brushing her rough hazelnut hair back behind her ears as she looked out of the window at Italica and the Corridor beyond it, constant helicopter flights going back and forth.

The Marines and JSDF had been going in and out of resource sites around the clock, and, asides from the initial confrontation with a few enclaves with orcs and trolls chucking rocks and mud which did require artillery, it was a rather, comparatively, bloodless affair.

"Are you alright hun?"

The way her voice had cleared up had made Masterson quickly glance if the woman talking to him had been indeed Lisa Bannon, which it had been, and he had been happy because of it in the morning after such a dark night.

"Is there a particular answer you'd like to hear?"

"Well I'd like to hear the truth."

"Mmm, knew you'd say that." His two Peacemakers had been on the table, the rags next to them caked in dried blood. Though Hazama had told them disarm, they wouldn't have that, not in this world. They would abide by the orders to stay put and be rendered inactive for the time being, but they were soldiers, and soldiers needed their tools.

It wasn't really them that Hazama had been worried about anyway, it had been Itami and Emerson.

There was hardly any time for Itami and Emerson to reconcile as Itami came with the rest of RCT3, Suguwara, Blackburn and a surprising amount of the prostitutes. He and Emerson had been brought to the Joint CP and held under a rather extensive debrief by both the JSDF and the Marines, once again Mitch presiding over Emerson's de-facto interrogation of the events that happened that night in the capital.

Neither Itami, Emerson, or the rest of RCT3 had made it back to their posts at the Fromar Keep.

Once again Bannon had found herself in a position of command, or, at least, babysitting.

"To be honest, I don't know…" Masterson had said lightly, dragging his rough hands beneath his eyes and dragging. "Give me a few days and I might know… 'is too early for this shit."

She suspected she had already known the answer, but she wouldn't dare say anything. It was a delicate topic, given Masterson's bombastic attitude meeting the darkness of what he had done recently. She didn't enjoy thinking of Cam doing those things, but then again, perhaps this was just the misguided jealousy over the fact she hadn't seen this same action: that she hadn't alleviated the burden of a comrade.

Of course he hadn't been just a comrade to her, but that wouldn't matter, she reasoned.

"Not sleeping in?" she asked, grabbing the Enfield and aiming down the scope that had been acquired from Black. Bannon had been a good shot enough to use it, that is if she the opportunity. Asides from Hakone she hadn't fired it in anger yet, and perhaps she was curious to see what it could've done.

But that had meant going back out on the field, and the likelihood of that happening had been slim.

"I have not slept in ever since I was twelve years old Lisa, I don't see how the military woulda made me stop." Or perhaps it was the fact that Masterson couldn't sleep, his senses alight, his body unable to shake off that combat high that was, for once, fueled not by professionalism or training, but by anger.

It was a grisly feeling that electrified every single bud of his skin ceaselessly, and only after he had thrown up again into a pan at the side of his own bed earlier in the morning had he been able to pass out and live with himself for the meanwhile.

When he had looked into the mirror earlier that morning he had seen a man who had asked for all that he had done, and yet still he was punishing himself because of it. He was Tracey's team lead and he had to forever justify every kill was in his name somehow.

But petty revenge for a comrade could only go so far.

He couldn't forget what Shino had done to that man, and his mouth was on fire because of it. However more was the case he and Shino had been the same, just for a second, in that throne room, they had screamed the same tone and craved the same blood.

Perhaps her advances on him had been something a bit more cardinal than he realized.

"You seem to be doing fine, with what? Five hours of sleep after nearly three sleepless days?" he had clasped his hand on the top of her head and roughed up her hair, her giggling going from a rather adorable clear to the usual, gritty rumble that it was. It didn't matter to Masterson as long as she had been happy, just for a second. She had appreciated it, the show of affection: she taking the hand and kissing his palm for a second as they forgot where they were and a few of the Rangers were making either kissy faces or gagging at them.

Doc had walked over with a small flashlight, taking up a seat as Bannon had reoriented herself toward him and stared straight through him, awaiting his daily check up on her eye:

He flipped the patch up as he shone a bright light into it. "See anything out of it today?"

"It's all black Doc…. I can feel it though. Moving and all that."

He had stayed silent as he raised his flashlight up in the four cardinal directions, Bannon following with both her eyes. The milky one had followed, even if Bannon didn't outright realize it. That had gone into Doc's running log as he had tapped his pen against her forehead twice as Masterson had looked over. Doc hadn't really explained to him what was going on with her faded eye.

"Something's wrong with the optic nerve, half of it is dying the other half is trying to regenerate methinks. Macular degeneration perhaps. Push and pull. Just gotta hope the right side pushes enough to win the day. God bless stem cells or else I would've actually had to do something."

"Wait and see as usual Doc?"

"Affirmative, Sergeant Bannon." Doc had been one the people to oversee her operation at the Arnus Hill Hospital. "I don't want to go digging back in there too soon, especially since the eye is apparently working."

"Important word there Doc: working." Bannon's sarcasm had deadpanned as she sipped her coffee.

"Eh, well, experimental medicine ain't my forte, ma'am." With a curt nod he had left the table and went back to looking out the window with Loke, the woman still shaken up from her actions last night. She needed someone to talk to and Ramirez had been no help, seeing as he had been Hitman's usual advice giver in trying times. He had buried himself in newspapers detailing his hometown, not in the talking mood as he furrowed his eyes and kept a frown on his face.

He kept the outside world out of his head as he recollected himself: a valuable tool in his own opinion. It was how he had stayed sane after all these years in wars and slaughter beyond his comprehension.

One of those wars had been taking place outside in the blue, rather beautiful day.

The helicopter flights back and forth had been constant, ferrying in and out Marine and JSDF teams from various locations of interest. As the Americans had looked up and out at the iron chariots of the war machines present there had been an element of wistfulness, of betrayal and coldness that had made the pits of their stomachs cold and dark while the Japanese combat teams had rejoiced in actually doing operations on that scale.

The euphoria of doing something had clouded the JSDF's thoughts as America had long since grown weary of that high and saw through the smoke.

The Marines would've felt bad, but they could not take pity on themselves when they were still doing what they did, and rode out into the Special Region with demands and the steel in their teeth to get it whatever the cost.

Who was following who at this point? Was the only reason why any of this was happening was because the Marines had been there? Or was this an inevitability? Was this the fate of all benevolent invasions against a power that wronged the invaders?

Whatever the case the excuse that had existed was the one that kept the Americans from going mad: this was necessary.

If what Kurokawa had told Emerson during their first night out in the wilds of the Special Region, just after they saw a giant monster burn down the forest, was true, then if they were all under the same stars then the same could be said for the sky itself.

Ramirez had grumbled as he took a glance outside. " _The same… the same…_ "

The same skies he saw over Iran: filled with helicopters and armed gunships meant to fight war he didn't agree with.

* * *

Silence was Bannon's preferred ambiance as she sipped her coffee and quietly ran through the Corridor's locally run new "newspaper", avoiding wanting to type up her post-action report . The concept of journalism and the daily paper had been new to the people of the Corridor, but the emulation of the front page of the newspaper was readable enough in its broken English edition.

It didn't seem like a big deal to the Special Task Force, but the introduction of the printing press to the locals had did the same thing that Gutenberg had spurred on himself when he had introduced the machine: people wanted to read and be literate, and perhaps that had helped break down the barriers of reluctance that many of the locals had when the language learning classes were offered in Japanese, English, and in a quickly diminishing amount the Lingua Franca.

The education provided by the Special Task Force and the "Order" of the Red Cross had been free more or less, and the locals had come out by the hundreds to attend lectures and classes of all sorts just for the ability to learn.

It was a beautiful thing that brought many of the more humanitarian inclined members of the Special Task Force to tears, but it proved the propensity for a person to learn had been so instinctual that it justified Lelei's own diving into the books she had downloaded in Tokyo in her laptop.

Otherwise brought over literature by the Japanese had actually been in some retrograde with their own world's progression: which was to say that Voltaire, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Charles Dickens were hot authors at the PXs as opposed to the current New York Times' best sellers. That and one of the first cultural pursuits of the Corridor had been in the local's interpretations of Shakespeare's plays. The subject matters had been more relatable.

The adventures of Candide, Hank Morgan, and King Arthur had been on the gossiping tongues of the avid readers and play watchers in the outdoor theaters and plays put on in the street. To the Red Cross personnel it was a wonderful thing to see, in some condescending form; plays being reenacted by a backwards people.

Albeit in The Taming of the Shrew the Shrew that was Kate was played by a buxom humanoid shrew in the literal translations did by the Corridor playwright. Another curious complication that arose was the showing of the Spice and Wolf anime series by several of the JSDF in private. For obvious reasons, many of the audience thought that the anime was depicting historical events between the two main characters, one of them interpreted as the apostle of the harvest.

The newspaper following the first showing had quoted Hazama in stating that (to the knowledge of the JSDF) Spice and Wolf was entirely fictional.

Today's morning issue by the "New Paper of the Corridor" had spoken to the rebuilding efforts of the Corridor by the Navy Seabees, Marine Engineers, the JSDF personnel, and the locals that could. No comment about the mass mobilization that kept the helicopters over the sky, a visage which kept some survivors of the Battle of Italica momentarily frozen as they remembered the pure horror of 200,000 dead in an ungodly show of force.

Masterson had leaned over her shoulder as he had flipped through the pictures on his phone, groaning. "Eugh, I might step into a PX later and try to find a way if I can order a new console… all my shit is back in Akusho."

Bannon had rumbled in silent agreement. "I… I don't know what I'll do today, honestly." she admitted. "Worried sick about Lelei…"

"Lelei's probably fine, you know how she is: if there's something to be done, she's gonna do it… probably usin' those magic powers of her to reconstruct houses just by waving her staff or somethin'." Masterson had glanced up at her face, the side of her mouths crooked as she looked down into the paper. He could tell she was more looking through it than anything. "…Not like that would stop you from worryin'."

"Mmm." she nodded.

It was odd at first for her to talk with Lelei like she did: they had been both wanderers, and yet Bannon would've thought her a better fit for the life she lived than herself. A woman on the edge of thirty talking to a girl no older than sixteen or fifteen. One had been a Ranger, the other had been a magical apprentice who seemed to accomplish more in her teenage years than the Ranger had in her entire life.

Originally Bannon had come to talk to Lelei as only a way to get into her own little Ponzi scheme (like father like daughter she had long since argued with herself) about the housing markets of the Corridor, but there had been more into that with idle tea talk.

In truth Lelei had been the first child Bannon had talked to ever since she had been one, and that had mystified her in a way.

On the flipside Lelei had seen Bannon as a woman that acted outside of her role as a woman: the proud proclaimer that Lelei herself could've been whatever she wanted to be if she knew what to do.

Her inspiration per se.

Needless to say that Bannon had formed her friendship with Lelei as much as Lelei had formed a friendship with her.

"Whatever happened to the rule where we couldn't bond with the locals because it would jeopardize operational efficiency?" Masterson had asked, half serious, half sarcastically.

Bannon had shook her head as she reasoned. "Nonsense. She's like a niece to me… a really, really disconnected niece."

"Yeah, she's your niece and Itami's my step-brother."

"With Captain Emerson being how he is? You never know." Her attempt at observational humor was not lost on Masterson as a few Rangers checked the tolerances of their ARs by racking the bolts back and forth violently.

"Heh." Masterson had chuckled once as he settled on a picture from the earlier days: a picture from a particularly successful community building op that had comprised of US Army Rangers taking on Japanese civilians and the JSDF in an airsoft match, Masterson carrying both Emerson and Bannon over his shoulders as they had played the role of "wounded in action" as plastic BBs flew overhead.

Happier times.

Bannon had looked around once and confirmed that all the Rangers had been there in the dining room: either preforming maintenance on their gear or chatting amongst each other or the present maids. All of them had been there with nowhere else to go.

"If anyone leaves, make sure they check with you, alright? We're under house arrest, remember?"

"Don't need to remind me… going somewhere?"

"Just to the balcony." she had gotten up and pushed the paper to Masterson, the man nodding at her request. "Thanks for the coffee and…" she had stumbled over her words as she caught herself being rather sweet. It had made her feel rather domestic, and it hadn't been a familiar feeling. "Just get some rest hun', alright? Please."

"Please?" Masterson had echoed her words as he felt the bags around his eyes for the first time.

"For the rest of us." she had clarified with a nod and a straight lipped face, her eye had told a different, more personal type of care however. That was the one Masterson had used to listen to her as he nodded and patted her shoulder reassuringly as she walked out.

Doc had shook his head as Bannon had exited the dining room, Masterson picking up on it as he rejoined him. "What is it Doc?"

"As a trained medical professional I'm 90% sure- huh, hold on." He had dropped a dummy shell from his breaching shotgun as he pumped it once before he continued. "I have to log any instances of fraternization between NCOs for the sake of unit cohesion." He had given a low look at Masterson, a tired one before the sides of his mouth had bended downward. "But God knows it's not going to be you two that's going to be the most detrimental to us at the end."

"I sense a little jealousy Doc, need a hug?"

"No… but I won't report you two. As a good doctor I'm also not supposed to break hearts."

"Which is why we love you man."

Hitman had, in the large portion, had loved to bother Doc with saying that they all loved him, which was true in some measure. Better for the combat medic to hold the one being treated in high opinion than anything else.

He rubbed the top of his bald head in some annoyed gesture, picking up the newspaper in front of Masterson for himself as he replaced her at the seat she once sat. "Save it for Sergeant Bannon, Sergeant Masterson."

* * *

Persia had taken a likening to Bannon, if only because in her almost childlike disposition had said that Bannon reminded her of a friendly Hawken-like humanoid who had once known her as a child. That she had been the right mixture of sharp and friendly that had made her resonate with (using her new knowledge of American English) "coolness".

It was why she had followed Bannon around in the Keep and knew what she and Lelei had preferred for their mid-day tea.

"May I fetch you some Saint John's Wort and Rooibos Tea for you and Madam Lalena? I have gotten word that she should be back soon."

Persia had reminded Bannon of the maids her family had employed, so she could be nothing but kind to them, she smiling and patting Persia's cheek fondly. "It'd be appreciated hun'."

The cat like humanoid had bowed out as Bannon had sat down on the open air balcony that overlooked the front of the Keep: where Hitman and RCT3 had made their final stand during the Battle of Italica.

The keep itself had taken some gunfire during the battle, but the Marine engineers had made a point to repair the keep for the people of Italica before the construction of Camp Kilgore had taken place. Those renovations had, at least externally, survived the earthquake.

Beyond the keep the Marine's influence could only be seen in either Camp Kilgore, a sizable base having taken what had been the southwest point of Italica's walls, the largest buildings housing the helicopters and vehicles in their garages, the rest dedicated to the field headquarters, barracks, and hospital. Otherwise the Marines had used the local businesses and the PXs for food and patronage into the community.

There had been no more walls in Italica: only giant, prison guard like towers that afforded 360 degree views above Italica, constructed using materials from the salvaging of the defensive walls, Rory and her MPs making ample use of them alongside the Marine patrols when the MP base in Koda Village was otherwise busy with new volunteers, recruits, and other activity as befit the growing STALMP unit, more break action rifles having been provided to the peace keeping force.

Rory herself had been busy corralling peace and order around the Corridor and escorting the populace home, the masses still rather displaced to the open plains on either side of the Corridor.

Not that Bannon had been raring to see her. She needed to check up Chuka, undoubtedly, but Lelei had been her priority as she had heard the quiet footsteps of a mage creep in behind her.

"Miss Bannon."

"Lelei." Simple greetings of name and recognition. It was all Bannon ever needed as she respectfully bowed before the official of Italica that she had called her friend with something of a small grin. "You know, where I come from, there's no such thing as earthquakes… I thought the same here."

"I believe comparing Montana to Falmart as a whole is not a clear comparison." she had responded back.

Bannon had tilted her head in agreement as she had motioned for their usual seats on either side of a pretty little white table, overlooking the Corridor from Myui's balcony.

"Where is Madam Myui anyway?"

"Currently at Arnus in an emergency meeting with several of her maids and Sevson."

"Is she doing fine?"

"It is what is expected of her."

Expectations had often defined people, but that wasn't always right when it came to expectations defined by blood. At first Sevson didn't know exactly what to feel when Pina had left and told him to deal with children in charge of what was the Empire's premier agricultural city-state.

Though he had reasoned this was a different land, with a different people, and he would be tolerant to the point where if it ran smoothly he would make no protest.

But he didn't need to tell himself this was a different land when Myui had expressed her rightful place on the throne to the people of Italica and the Corridor. They had listened to her without question. The willingness of people to be lead had made the leader as much as the leader had made themselves. He should've known that by now, especially as a major.

"And what have you been expected to do hun'?"

Her staff had something of a living quality to it, the way the cyan gem on its top had seem to dim, as if it was breathing, noting to its overuse in these last few hours.

Her heavy lifting telekinesis spells had been useful, if not understated, in the last few hours.

However she did it without complaint, and she had volunteered to go out with the Marines and the JSDF to the mining sites. Sevson hadn't allowed her however when he got word she had taken on a Marine helmet and almost took off on a Blackhawk.

The eagerness to do something had betrayed her.

"A lot."

The simple answer had fit her as the two had finally sat down, Lelei's gaze more focused on the helicopters buzzing above.

"Only the GSDF's combat teams have been deployed, the Red Cross and the mass of the JSDF here are in the Corridor trying to clean up."

"Well, you're in good hands. JSDF always has to handle stuff like this on the otherside."

"I know… The Marines have their own specialty, which is why I've seen almost none of them here, helping us."

It was slightly accusing, but it was an opinion shared between most of the local inhabitants: where had the Marines gone?

Persia had reappeared behind them, appearing with a tray: two tea cups and a locally produced kettle, Myui's family seal on it, two tea bags gingerly set into the white cups before being poured over with boiling water.

"Thank you Persia." the maid had bowed graciously as she left the two women be.

It was as Bannon had turned did she notice that Lelei's robes had been tarnished and dirtied by dust and debris, she immediately getting up before she began to sip, kneeling in front of a sitting Lelei with a handkerchief left by Persia.

She had remembered her mother doing this to her once at the end of a summer's day, a long time ago. It'd been years since she had talked to her mother, and that could've been said for both of them, but Bannon had been inclined to remember at this instance what her mother did as she had taken Lelei's sleeve.

She had wiped it down as Lelei tilted her head at her in some bewilderment, Bannon grumbling. "Dirty…" her misgiving had been more portrayed in how she had patted Lelei down with that white handkerchief, it turning brown and black before the woman's scared hands ran through Lelei's blue hair, getting the messy strands out of her eyes.

"Well, in a better world, people would be prepared enough for this sorta thing for people as young as you to simply stand by… Not right for kids your age to be caught up in stuff like this." the words came out like a whisper as she reassumed her seat and crossed her legs.

"Which is why I intend to establish a "fire fighting" force soon, in light of this earthquake."

Bannon couldn't disagree as she nodded sympathetically. There wasn't anything too out of place with a firefighters. Wouldn't insult the Japanese more by having the Marines support such an operation without them. "There will always be people who will have to do what others cannot."

"Such as yourself, Bannon?"

She remembered the creed her cohort had to recite, coming into the Ranger Indoctrination Program, poetically known as RIP.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _ **R**_ _ecognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of the Rangers._

 _ **A**_ _cknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier._

 _ **N**_ _ever shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some._

 _ **G**_ _allantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow._

 _ **E**_ _nergetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country._

 _ **R**_ _eadily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor._

 _ **Rangers Lead The Way!**_

 _ **From the Ranger Handbook**_

* * *

"Yeah…"

The silence that followed was comfortable as ever, it having been well into the afternoon as the two simply sipped tea, Lelei recovering from the events of the last few hours. She had understood the situation brewing between the JSDF and the Marines enough to know that perhaps the only truly neutral ones would've been the Rangers and RCT3, if only because RCT3 had been binded to the Rangers.

"I estimate the damage from this earthquake to our holdings to be 2.2-"

"Stop hun', I don't want you to worry about that right now." she had sipped her tea as one of the Little Birds had circled the Corridor above, still surveying the damage as the AC-130 was still on observation duty as well. "You've helped me more than almost everyone else in my life has put together, but you're still a child, and you're safe after all this. So please, just join in this peace for now, eh?"

There had been a strained breath that Lelei had been holding that she didn't know she had, and when she let go of it there had been a smile hidden behind it as well. The day had been long for her, the stress tough between seeing her city crumble for half a minute.

" _Thank you."_

"Mmm."

Bannon knew how to use people, and Lelei had known what it was like to simply only be a role: the student, the mage, the translator, the refugee. No one had treated her simply as Lelei in her life until Bannon came. Even with her nomadic tribe she was not treated as a child: just as another pair of hands.

"When is your birthday, Lelei?" the older woman had asked as she saw another magic user in the far off distance glow before salvaging a downed storefront into an eat pile of planks and material, a construction crew of both GSDF and locals carrying it off in carts and truck beds.

"The day I was born?"

The notion of a birthday had been a rather abstract concept to the Special Region, and indeed the first time Delilah had hosted a "birthday party" by request of the JSDF, she had assumed that someone was being born.

It was anything but that however.

"You know how old you are, I assume you know your birthday." she clarified why she was asking.

Lelei's vast knowledge had comprised of many things, but she was, in some ways, a mystery to herself. "I do not remember, and I have not been told. I only have a general idea of how old I really am… why do you ask Bannon?"

The big three zero had been in front of Bannon, and that had been why. "My birthday is coming up. Was thinking about yours, what I might give you as a birthday gift."

"A gift?"

"Yeah. Cameron, he already bought me and Kay a present, and we already gave Kay his because he needed it, but it got me thinking…"

"I do not require a gift for turning older, Miss Bannon."

"Nonsense. You need a gift, and you're gonna get one. Try to stop me hun'." she dared as she gave a smirk to Lelei, she herself still blank faced.

"If you give me a gift, then I must give you one." The notion of give and take had been steadfast in the mage's mind, if only by habit because of her magical abilities. She could not cast spells or control magic without giving up a piece of herself, her soul, temporarily, to do so.

"Regardless, what would you want?"

"Peace and prosperity for my people."

Bannon's smirk had gone away as she sipped her tea, blinking several times to let her request sink in. "Preferably something I as a single human being can turn up…?"

Her small shrug was all that Bannon had ever got before Lelei turned the question on her. "How about? What is your preference for a gift?"

"If I'm going by your standards a good life where I have two eyes and a voice that doesn't sound like I'm swallowing sand paper."

Lelei's mouth had opened in an oh, seriously considering her own request, but a different thought came out instead. "Does it not mean we both won't try?"

If Masterson had been passionate and moral, then Bannon had been reliable and stubborn. Which was, in Emerson's view, made her one of the best soldiers he had and trusted her to take of Hitman in his absence. Her disposition toward Lelei's request wouldn't change because of it.

"I'll try my best, but I think I'll have to get you something else when the time comes."

Bannon had been sipping with fond memory of when she had first found this type of tea on her tongue, and Lelei, as observant as she ever was, saw the label on the little slip of paper, hanging off the side of the tea cup.

"What does Rooibos mean, Lisa?" Lelei had asked as she saw the very amber looking liquid that she had seen Bannon drink for a month during their tea time flow past her lips. It was imported by her request, and Blackburn had been more than accommodating to her, she having reached out to him first when he had first arrived.

She had set her tea cup down as she had repeated the word herself, Lelei tilting her head as she heard Bannon say that word with an accent she never heard from her before. " _Rooibos_. It means Red Bush from where my parents come from."

"Where do your parents come from?"

Lelei had looked into the more covered bio files of the Rangers, Bannon especially, but what her bio would never know was that she had hailed from a country that didn't exist anymore.

Before Bannon could answer Persia had been at the glass door behind them. "Excuse me, Miss Lalena, Miss Bannon, it appears Itami and Emerson have returned with Recon Team Three."

They took off running.

* * *

To say Emerson had looked like hell was one thing, to say that he looked like he had gone through it was another. They hadn't cleaned him up ever since he had been back from the Capital: all his deeds had been written on his clothes and in his boots as he and Itami had walked side by side with RCT3 in the back.

Whatever might've existed between Emerson and Itami in the frustration of what had happened last night was to be a battle fought for another day, for they had been complicit in the same acts, and they only had each other for support as they stumbled in, escorted in by JSDF MPs as they slowly shed their kits, their gear, on the floor of the entry way: Kurokawa, Kuribayashi, and Tomita all stumbling behind Itami and Emerson the same.

They were exhausted physically, mentally, spiritually, and perhaps judicially. The story of what had happened inside the throne room had been went over dozens and dozens of times between each of them: clarifying what happened, what was said, and why they did what they did.

The maids had rushed them all almost as fast as the NCOs in Hitman, the rest picking up the kits off of the floor as they looked at the completely downtrodden group that came in.

It was surreal: it's almost as if they had gone out with those combat teams and seen war, only to come back into these halls of civility.

Persia had shrieked as Furuta had collapsed to the floor, and when that had happened the returning soldiers had found support as the Hitmen had picked one of RCT3 to carry in some way, Doc and the two Hitmen team leaders going to the officers.

The captain had looked weakly, tiredly up as his two sergeants as he had pushed off their arms, their grip on him. No words given, no words to be taken, nothing but silence as he shrugged off his gear, his guns, even the Winchester, and stumbled through the entry way to, presumably, his bedroom.

"He's fine." Itami had uttered as he watched his friend walk away to be alone, Bannon getting his arm over her shoulder as he stumbled himself, Doc throwing his other arm over his own shoulder.

"Sergeant Masterson, Doc's recommendation, go check up on our dear Captain Kay, would ya?" Doc himself had nodded at his own third person words as he implored his sergeant, Masterson hesitant to leave so many needy people other than his captain.

Itami had grunted in agreement as he closed his eyes. "Come on Cam, go check on him for me, eh?"

The question of what kind of friends Itami and Emerson had been was a question that really never needed asking. They were friends that came out of an unlikely war from a horrible incident, who had fallen in together because they seemed fated to be together throughout what a magical Gate would bring.

Friends that bonded over joint JSDF and Marine PT, bar hopping, and official functions. They were different people back then, however they were not so changed to not remember that they were friends above it all: that was what kept them sane in some measure.

It was what Itami had told himself: Emerson, for all that the Americans did, would still be his friend no matter what happened.

Masterson had understood with an almost sarcastic, but meaningful, salute, running after Emerson.

"Holy shit," Itami had shook his head as one of the maids had arrived with trays of water in glasses, a weird visage to the beaten RCT3 as they saw them in slow motion due to their dreariness. He had taken one and downed it fast. "That one CIA guy, Mitch, is it? He just doesn't let up."

Hitman had to still get used to thinking that the friendly, old MP that had been Mitch something something had actually been a Central Intelligence Agency spook whose preferred title had been Agent Beckett. With his age it had long been assumed in Masterson's ranting about the CIA earlier on that Beckett had been the one who killed Kim Jung Un by " _posing as a male prostitute for that baby faced flower boy Kimmy and spiking his drink or somethin'_."

"Just on and on and on with the questioning on Emerson and Shino."

Tomita had taken two glasses and splashed them over his face, the dirt washing off of his pores as they splashed on the floor, none of the maids particularly minding as Kurata was finally hauled up and off in Persia's rather strong a rms.

Bannon had raised the eyebrow over her non-working eye by habit. "Just Emerson and Shino?"

Itami had winced as he remembered the reason he had heard just barely as he was carted in and out of the interrogation room at Arnus Hill:

" _The only fuckin' people that have the initiative to kill that indiscriminately on a whim among those that were there are Sergeant Kuribayashi or Captain Emerson."_

Itami had almost emulated Emerson as he had shook off the two Rangers from supporting him, but only to fall onto his knees on the floor as water came to be splashed on marble floors: his reflection there looking right back at him.

"I threw that fucking punch! I lashed out first! Why not me?! Why not-?!" his fist had made a splash as it came down, his face getting specks of water as his incoherency of weight and blame conflicted over his face.

He thought it unfair Emerson and Shino were bearing the burden of Mitch's and Yanagida's questioning alone. Everyone else just corroborated to confirm what had happened:

They had opened fire in self-defense and walked that blurred line as dozens died in an emotional outburst of right and wrong that had no place in the battlefield.

The democratic option, diplomacy, seemed so far away to the Japanese, but as far as the Americans were concerned that hadn't been on the table at all: it was peace that seemed so far away now.

"Come on, lieutenant," Doc had taken Itami's elbow as he began to drag him over his back. "You can curse at the CIA tomorrow. **You all can**!"

Doc had been a man of grumbles and misgivings, but when he had yelled it was an important distinction that had reeked of literal "Doctor's orders".

What was Bannon to do but to look out over RCT3 and see why he had said it. "All of you, get some shut eye!"

And of all people there was only one that had not seemed phased at all as she kept all her gear on her, her rifle cocked and ready and over her front, a smirk to her mouth and fire in her eyes as she passed Bannon, pausing.

She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out, for there was nothing to say as she shrugged and went on her merry way, thinking this was only another day on the job and she was nothing special.

Behind Bannon, almost hiding, had been Lelei, silent and observing.

A witness.

* * *

Perhaps Bannon didn't need to really order RCT3 to get some sleep, but they had all fallen into their bunks and bed fast enough as the maids had all stopped whatever matters were occupying them and attended to the tired troopers.

Even Kurokawa against her restraint had been tucked in by Doc as he had spoken French reassuringly to her, as if to soothe her to sleep. For being a romance language, Doc hadn't exactly been the romantic type despite his usage of it.

Kurokawa had been special. She always had been coming here, into the Special Region. Her thoughts were American in some way with her restraint, and, in some small way, she disapproved of what the JSDF was doing with the integration, but still she was more willing to give her mind and body up for the sake these people just out of the goodness of her heart.

That goodness of her heart had carried her a long way, and she had not fired a shot in the capital when it all went down.

Even if they were totally exhausted Lelei had quietly helped them along with a mass spell, said under her breath which put RCT3 to sleep rather fast, their heavy and rapid breaths all calming to a peace.

Crudely one of the Rangers had said earlier, underneath her breath as Bannon had stood by and watched them all get settled into bed and the shades drawn in the communal room that had once belonged to the Fromar knights, that RCT3 had no right being this tired.

"For one, Babs, you're a fuckin' Ranger. For two, it's the mental stuff that's broken them down."

Specialist Barbara Annel had been one of the more crass Rangers, but she had company. There had been a section of Hitman that enjoyed staying out of the drama that had been of refugees, the Rose Order, demi-gods, and of the general fact they had been conducting modern imperialism on a fantasy world: that they had thought themselves detached enough that they were only there because they were doing their job. However deep down inside that had been more of a protection mechanism, and every war down to the grunt got complicated eventually.

Twenty one people had made up the Hitmen, and all of their lives had gotten more complicated because of last night. To say that some of them had been annoyed was an understatement.

Annel had leaned her back against the wall as she adjusted the pony tail of her curly, dark hair, her glasses flaring in the light as the final shades were closed to the barracks. "Yeah, well, doesn't give them the excuse to be drama queens." Perhaps, in some way, that had gone for them all.

Masterson had seen the tenseness in the eyes of the Rangers as he had silently come into the room next to Bannon, and tenseness was usually the best state of mind to squeeze off a few rounds.

The basement downstairs had been an ideal firing range for the Rangers to do private drills with RCT3 in between the varying mazes of storage space and barrels.

He had whispered into her ear quickly, confirming Emerson had been fine and put into bed rather easily.

He had picked an M16 off the ground as he checked the chamber, his finger pointing toward several other rifles including RCT3's, Doc and Harris among others taking those up. "Range is empty Babs, grab a rifle, we're zeroing them." he spoke to his squad specifically. "Gotta do something to keep ourselves busy."

"Of course, sarge." was her answer as she grabbed Itami's Type 64 rifle, he now fully blacked out along with the rest of the unit sans Shino, whom had been well enough to carry her own rifle.

"I think I'll join you Cam." Shino had said casually, making the Rangers turn their heads at her.

"Oh, so you're on a first name basis with Sergeant Masterson Kuribayashi?" Ramirez hadn't the pleasantries to hide his disapproval of her; on how she wanted to walk with them in all measures. It was a fact that in all the wars he had fought in, he had seen Sergeant Kuribayashi one too many times.

"George." Bannon had raised a hand tiredly, looking at Shino. "Let her go."

"Fine, but I'm going with Sergeant Masterson then."

Something had been sustaining Shino, Bannon had noticed as they traded gazes. Her stamina had been bolstered by actions, by excitement and anticipation. She was fine in every sense, and the only way that might've felt any more wrong to her was if she had been the one in the throne room of the Empire with Emerson and not Masterson.

War was supposed to change people, bloody battles forming the psych in horrible ways. However to Shino it did nothing, and that was horrifying.

"Thanks, Lisa." she had patted her shoulder as she motioned to Bannon's own carbine, offering to take it to be zeroed. Bannon couldn't say no as she was left alone in the dark of the room with her Rangers and a sleeping RCT3.

Bannon's team had been host to the more serious of the Hitmen, and it had matched as they all leaned against the walls as the maids quietly attended to RCT3 under their watch: a rather sinister visage of silent Rangers biding their time. Even Khan next to Peters had been silent, matching his handler as he looked out across them all.

Loke had remained, even if she had been one of Masterson's team.

"Not going with them, hun'?" Bannon had rumbled quietly as Loke had come up next to her.

"I think I've had enough gunfire recently…" she responded silently, almost solemnly. Bannon had looked down to Loke's fingers and they had been still twitching every few seconds or so, vibrating. It seemed to hurt.

Of course all of Hitman had been comrades and compatriots, however there were a few who had been genuine friends throughout, Bannon and Loke being two of those. Then again Loke had been friends with everyone with her sweet personality.

"My rifle's fine anyway," she had patted her M4, the weapon's finish having been manually worn down by her and painted some camouflage that made it look like it had been perpetually dusty. "I think I would know."

"Hmph." Bannon had affirmed, shaking her hip once to make sure that the M45 had still been there, Kuribayashi having taken her duty weapon. "I'm going down to Delilah's place to finish up my reports, after that I'm gonna go check up on Black, wanna come?"

"The JSDF outside would allow that?" Loke raised an eyebrow.

"I would allow that."

Loke had jumped in her skin as she heard Lelei's quiet voice, she having been in Bannon's shadow the entire time. That jump had caused the pain of her midsection to come back however with a yelp.

Lelei had always been one to take the initiative, lifting Loke's shirt as she had winced and grabbed the general area where she had been stabbed, a glossy blue film on her fingertips as she pressed down on Loke's wound.

The woman moaning for a second had been quickly stammered out as Lelei had slowly backed off and left Loke hazed, her stomach numb and her eyes dim lidded.

"Pain relief." was her explanation.

"Feels like you just took a chunk out of my stomach, Lelei…" Loke had breathed as Bannon had guided Masterson's premier pointman out with her own hand, the mage following.

"An alternative?" Lelei asked.

Bannon had waved her off, knowing Lelei's grasp of humor and sarcasm not exactly uniform. "I'm already down a man, Lelei, I don't think I'd enjoy losing another."

* * *

 ** _Falmart - The Corridor_**

* * *

Technically the GSDF and Marine MPs posted outside of the keep were under orders to keep the Rangers inside, however when orders to the contrary had come from Lelei, there was nothing to argue against as the two female Rangers strode out through Italica to the Corridor, stopping at the local stable.

Lelei's idea of the rental shopping cart and bicycle concept she had read about in major population centers in America, granted the MPs had to hunt down a few stolen horses: many of them stolen, but thankfully imbued with radio tracker in their flesh.

Not that Lelei would use a horse when she had her own bicycle. "Not coming with us Lelei?" Bannon had asked as she mounted her own steed, Loke getting on the same horse. The mage had shook her head in the negative as she put on her helmet, mounting her bike in a rather odd visual image.

"I was just checking up on you, Bannon. I still have work to do."

"Stay safe then, eh?"

Lelei had returned a nod before she had sped off on her bike, one of the only people within the Corridor with the talent to ride a bike.

Part of the Marine agenda had been teaching locals how to use alternative means of transportation, and that had meant, mostly, bikes. Occasionally a Humvee or a Red Cross truck would bump its way down the main street, but motor vehicles were out of the range of the Corridor inhabitants for good reason, the interest in gas or oil that powered the machines would spark an interest in them by the locals.

The JSDF, although not officially, wouldn't enjoy it if the Special Region suddenly became self-aware of what was important to Japan.

Bannon wouldn't pass up the chance to ride a horse however.

"You know, being a Ranger here has been such a great learning experience ma'am." Loke had held onto Bannon's shoulders as the two had made their way out of the stable, the owner giving them a thumbs up as a silent goodbye to them.

"How so Talia?"

"Learned how to speak Japanese and the Lingua Franca, learned how to ride a horse, got a few battle scars, and made friends with a few unlikely allies. I think this place has made my life."

It was a bit unfitting to say that as they got their first good look at the Corridor at ground level and in broad daylight.

Perhaps if the Corridor had only been a sparse collection of buildings that resembled a village in Italica and at the foot of Arnus, damage might've been negliable and minimal.

But that wasn't the case.

The compact design of the Corridor and the constant construction had made any structural collapse, fire, or general calamity liable to resonate throughout the neighborhoods at a much deadlier rate.

Buildings had burned, and there was glass on the street as the MPs were on full alert for looters, the broken form of buildings lousy as far as the eye could see on the main street.

And yet the Corridor was still buzzing with activity: with people wanting to fix the community one picked up stone at a time.

This town was their own. Not the JSDF's or the Marine's, despite what they contributed to its design.

Because of that there had been more manpower provided by the locals than the militaries or the Red Cross.

Not to say that they hadn't been busy.

"You sure that rabbit woman's café is open for business?" Loke had doubted, but Bannon had known better.

She knew Delilah somewhat, if only because she had worked many jobs across the Corridor.

"Nonsense, business is booming Loke, even in this kind of… down market." she said as she had reached into her back pocket momentarily, a spent .45 casing being pulled out before, to Loke's confusion, kept.

The horse had seemed to agree with Bannon's observation as it whinnied, but she had not made conversation as she had whipped the reins and took off.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor – The Officers House**_

* * *

Delilah had been used to throwing out the rowdy in her places of work, especially those that had served alcoholic beverages. There had been no alcohol however when a dozen fighter pilots, half Japanese and half American, had all been dragged out bloodied and bruised, still wanting to progress that hurt to each other.

Delilah had personally thrown out Lieutenant Colonel Noelle as the JSDF pilots God and Baron had been heaved out by two beastly MPs, the rest of the pilots either still grasping each other or being wrestled by the MPs as well.

"I'll break your _**FUCKING**_ neck next time! Just you see!" was Noelle's uncensored shout into the crowd as the MPs dragged him and his pilots away, a cut on his lip and a chip on his tooth.

The two Rangers had barely seen the commotion as Delilah simply brushed her hands, as if she was taking out the trash. The horses had been "parked" at another communal stable.

Loke had her M4 ready as a few of the locals had told them that everything was okay as they pushed through. One of those locals being a particular apostle.

"Of all the people…" Rory gave out a tired breath as she sat on the walkway in front of Delilah's and Delilah herself, her halberd dug into the dirt as two of her MPs flanked her, rifles ready. She had been referring to the pilots of course. She didn't expect them to be the most violent case of disorder.

"Commander Mercury." she had tilted her head up at the rough voice that called her.

"Ah! Bannon! Always a pleasure to see you." she had sprung up her dirt ruined face as she took hold of her weapon again, Loke still beating back the urge to not see her as a hostile. There was always a contingency plan for any hostilities displayed by her however.

"Likewise Commander Mercury." Bannon hadn't known if she was lying or not as she thumbed to the truck that the pilots had been thrown in in order to be taken back to the joint air base. "What was that about?"

Rory as a rather animated person had held her head in her hands as she tapped a finger against her cheek. "I overheard several of the JSDF earlier saying that the Marine pilots shot at their own pilots in the air… as for why, I do not know. It seems like they wanted to continue the fight down here."

"It seems like you've been busy, Rory." Loke had been more casual in her addressing of the demigod. She had allowed it of course. Only RCT3 and Hitman were allowed to call her her first name to her face she had specified.

"Oh, this is nothing compared to some of my old jobs." she cocked her small hips, the Rangers' attention drawn to what had been on her hip. Her halberd had been an ornate piece of art, so perhaps it was fitting to see the gold and black stylizing applied to a .38 revolver of the same type that the Japanese Metropolitan Police were offered.

Looking to the hips of the other MPs around, they had the same firearms.

"See something you like?" she teased.

As much as the Rangers were kept out of the loop regarding new movements and policies in the Special Region there wasn't much dispute that the Marines hadn't greenlit the JSDF giving the MPs sidearms.

Loke had nodded cautiously. "Those revolvers, may I see yours?"

"Of course."

Rory had drawn hers like Masterson, and indeed most of the gun handling of MPs had been in emulation of Masterson's action shooting. The revolver was twirled in her palm and offered to Loke, she taking it and holding the barrel down with one hand before motioning the cylinder out.

"Nambu, Model 60. .38 Special." Loke had rattled off as she had ejected the cartridges with the ejector rod into her palm, the metal had been darkened and designed in similar fashion to her Halberd.

"I did the design work myself." Rory had said proudly.

Loke had thumbed each unfired round back into the cylinder. One of them had been fired, and that one had been left out as it was handed back to Rory.

"When did you get these?" Bannon had been to the point as the crowd had finally started to disperse.

"While you were gone. Personally I've only used it once."

"Fulfilling your daily quota?" the sergeants sarcasm had elicited a giggle from Rory, she reaching up, patting Bannon's cheek and inhaling at the nape of her neck as she holstered the revolver again.

"With you around I don't need to worry about it." The way she had said that while curving the back of her hand along Loke's hip before disappearing into the crowd with her MPs yet another rather intimate touch Loke didn't appreciate from the refugees today. Rory had more and away appreciated as the last breath the Rangers heard from her that day was a shudder.

"Only used it once, eh?" Loke had ran the .38 casing through her knuckles like a coin as Delilah had appeared before the two Rangers, answering her thoughts.

"She had to use it to put a round in my ceiling. Always a way to get a "Show to stop", right?" Delilah had been one of the most successful English and Japanese speakers that had come out of the Corridor, and perhaps it was her boisterousness and enthusiasm which led her pursuits of language to appease all of her customers. "Visiting me today Lisa, Talia?"

She had known the Rangers on a first name basis the same way she had known Itami and the Rose Order.

Bannon had shook tote bag on her side with her laptop in it. "Needed someplace to write, you open?"

She had nodded kindly, her ears bobbing just enough to let the bullet casing ear rings she had created for herself dip into view with the rest of her warm orange fur and hair. "You know the fee for people who aren't officers then…"

Before Bannon had gotten her fee from her back pocket she had simply taken the .38 cartridge from Loke's hand, flicking it over to Delilah. Illegal or not she would be willing to use the spent casings as currency, despite what High Command had said about it.

Loke wouldn't be one to tattle as Delilah had put the "fee" in the pocket of her apron and led them in.

* * *

The scuffle between the pilots had still been rather fresh as several of the workers in Delilah's corner café had been sweeping, spraying, and generally picking up the pieces of a struggle that was beyond the two Rangers as they entered, Rory's bullet hole in the ceiling evident and currently covered up by a piece of tape which matched colors with the wood.

"Such a pity, I'll have to deduct that from today's profits." she had said quietly, hand against cheek as she led the two Rangers through, the café rather busy, all things considered: an image of normalcy that had been contrasted from the destruction outside.

"I'm sure that you can put in memo to Major Sevson or Sergeant Major Freeman."

Delilah had shook her head at the two Rangers. "Nonsense, why would I bother you people with such a trivial problem?"

"…Because it was our fault?"

Loke's answer hadn't clicked in Delilah's head as they had been led upstairs to the "officer's" section of the Officer's House, red curtains and the candle light highlighting cream colored walls.

The bustle of the busy downstairs, full of both JSDF and locals, had disappeared as they were led in to a less busy section and given a seat, tired JSDF officers silently ignoring the two Americans that walked in.

The curtain dividing this section and the conference room used by the Rose Order had been drawn closed to Bannon's detriment, her curiosity wondering what would've happened to them now and when word would've gotten to them about what happened at the Capital.

Given the fact that Bannon had been about to start that report her mind had naturally wandered and stayed, looking at those curtains as Loke sat down across from her at a corner table, up against a window and a white table cloth across the top.

"Will it be the usual, Lisa? Talia?"

"You have one hell of a memory, Delilah, but yeah." Loke had given the vocal answer as Bannon nodded, taking out her ThinkPad and getting started, the computer between her and the point man. The bunny woman and the Ranger had looked at Bannon as she had quietly zoned out into her work, the two sharing an understanding nod of Bannon's work etiquette and all the awkwardness it meant.

With that Delilah had walked along to fulfill their orders in her red, almost maid like outfit. It showing just enough to elicit a bigger tip from the male customers than the females… also the gratuity had been considerably more.

It was when Bannon's typing started, half her face hidden from Loke behind the laptop, did the Pakistani Ranger become a little annoyed.

She had put her elbows on the table and looked out the window, head framed by her palm.

"Used to work at a place like this during college, you know?" she started, Bannon merely superficially grunting as if she had heard it.

She waited a minute before continuing. "My advisor always told me I would be stuck in a place like that if I didn't quit it with the Greek life and went further into my major…" another grunt from Bannon.

Loke poked her tongue into the side of her cheek as she played with a loose strand of her black hair, brushing it behind her ears as Delilah had returned and gave her usual pleasantries of being available if they needed anything, Bannon nodding again at her as her only response.

"Now that I think about it, Delilah seems to be doing pretty well for herself as a waiter… granted she's working like, five jobs at once, but still, even with just this one… Makes you think."

"Thinking… yeah."

Admittedly Loke had told herself she had been on worse lunch dates as she blinked once or twice at Bannon's uncharacteristically distracted state.

"…Then again I didn't think as a Ranger I'd be sleeping in medieval Buckingham Palace or eating ice cream on the job with fine china while my sergeant ignores me..."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

She could've been a writer, Bannon. Then again she could've been a ballet dancer, a piano player, a farmer, a prostitute, a janitor, or an executive.

That was the opportunity that her parents had provided to her, and they had grown her up to be able to do most of those things. However her life, as it turned out, had offered her the other options that her parents would stick their nose up at as degeneracy.

All this to say that her descriptive writing skills had been comprehensive, and Loke had long since gone through four plates of ice cream of various local make by the time Bannon had gotten somewhat done.

The helicopter assault parties a few hundred feet up hadn't relented in their rate of incoming and outgoing as the day went on. This opposed to Loke's boredom, she having resorted to rolling her head around on the table as she waited for her sergeant to finish.

"You certainly look like you're having a fun time, miss."

A British tone underlined by some snarky, but grey, sneer.

"Isn't it everyone's favorite tank commander." The pointman almost sounded excited at finally having someone to have conversation with.

"Well I better be your favorite seeing as how I'm allowing you to use some of my gold."

The mention of wealth had Bannon look up from her laptop after she completed a sentence regarding the prostitutes.

"Why aren't you out with the rest of the combat teams Sergeant Wilbur?"

Wilbur had slightly cringed at her questioning as he brought a seat up and out for himself. "Good afternoon to you to Bannon, and, ah, well, I'm not infantry grunt, and the Chinooks can't exactly haul an Abrams everywhere so I'm just stuck here on my ass for the meanwhile while the JSDF and the rest of the boys go rough up some masters."

In all company that hadn't been formal, command, or familiar, Bannon had been a silent type if not anything else. The silent type which awkwardly looked at the person on the other half the conversation as if expecting them to speak on even after they had talked.

Perhaps her and Lelei had more in common than just interests and mutual beneficiaries.

"…So, how's the rest Ranger squad? I heard that bloke from Boston is still healing up at the Arnus Hospital." Wilbur had referred to Black as Delilah with her usual smile had delivered him his coffee, the bunny bowing at Bannon in acknowledgement as she had taken away her own soda.

"Private Black should make a full recovery within the next two days. The medical staff at Arnus is rather experienced…" Bannon spoke from experience. More specifically a lost left eye that was replaced by a not much better looking one, hidden still underneath the eyepatch. "As is Noriko."

"Ah, right, the Japanese slave. Do need to pay her a visit one of these days."

"Why would you do that super sergeant?"

"Just cause. Not every day you get to meet people that'll probably be defined in the history books like voici and voici." Wilbur's use of French hadn't exactly been correct, but Bannon hadn't though much of it when he was referring to her. It wasn't much of a compliment. Loke had been just slightly charmed as she leaned back in her chair, even if Wilbur had been focused on Bannon.

She was one of the first Wilbur and Yao had wanted to go to regarding hunting down the flame dragon, but the mission of hers to the capital had gotten to her first.

She had been one of the few to stare down that beast of death and come out, not only alive, but victorious.

Now that she was back however…

Blackburn had promised.

"Where's that dark elf I keep hearing about?" Bannon had asked plainly, noting her absence from Wilbur's side. The man had answered quickly as he shrugged.

"At work, I think."

"…Usually you don't talk to us unless you have something being schemed, super sergeant." as was the case, Loke pointing out. Wilbur had hidden his stash of gold underneath Bannon's bed in the Fromar Keep. The Marine Corps barracks wasn't exactly the most private of places to hide a fortune.

"Do I really not come to you in any other situation?"

Bannon nodded. "To the point, super sergeant."

"Alright, sheesh. You're back from the Capital, everyone single feckin' grunt is going out on a mission now within our AO. I think we could take a little trip to the Elbe Fiefdom and back for a week trip, perhaps kill some oversized lizards, you know, same as what you did last time, eh?"

Bannon had looked at him with her eye, a dead stare that spoke to unamused. "I don't know if you know, super sergeant, but I am under orders to not leave the Corridor, much like you now."

"Always gotta be an excuse."

Bannon ran her fist over her eyepatch, scratching it, the irritation picking up. Either that or it was the guilt. She could hardly imagine what Chuka had been like now; what it was like for Yao to watch her people die. "Don't try to make me feel bad, Wilbur. I'd love to die by dragon, but my death would be an inconvenience to my team."

"But you've taken on a flame dragon before Sergeant Bannon, who says you can't do it this time all the way eh?"

She breathed tiredly in an exhale, shaking her head as she took the easy way out. "Get Lieutenant Itami or Captain Emerson onboard and I'll listen to their orders, super sergeant."

He threw his arms up in the air. "It's always gotta be those two?"

She had closed her laptop as she sent off what she had of the report, wanting to be gone from the tanker. "For good reason, Wilbur."

"And what would be that good reason?"

The thousands of details that rendered Itami or Emerson the only ones able for the job had ranged from dark to light, official and unofficial, political and pragmatic, but Bannon used none of those.

"Because I'm not an officer."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Joint Field Hospital**_

* * *

The miracles of medical technology had made sure Black was still walking, albeit with a limp, as some exo-skeleton looking device had been formed around his right leg, pacing through the halls in a patient's gown where Bannon and Loke had found him.

"Ma'am." was his simple greeting, Bannon shaking the man's hand as Loke simply gave a quick hug. "You weren't lying when you said this hospital knows their stuff. They said I'll be back to killing people in a few days if my leg sets and the injections form."

Black had always been a tad edgy, but it was hard to take the marksman seriously with his rather strong Boston accent.

"Hazama pulled the plug on our operation capabilities Black, we're all supposed to be cooped up here in the Corridor until further notice." Loke had advised as she still held her rifle on her, off to her side, even with her right hand still on the grip.

Black had raised an eyebrow, but he couldn't fight as he sat down on one of the chairs in the white hallway.

"Well, shit, I'm still being paid. Won't like dealing with the Marines coming back and boasting about how they're conquering an Empire, but god forbid what the Japanese will say."

"You don't mean that." Loke had talked down to Black, the man running a hand through his short, clipped, dark hair, he having grown a goatee with the relaxation of grooming codes.

"No, I don't." he said after a tired sigh. "One of the Marine captains passed through here earlier, talked to me about their objectives."

Bannon tilted her head at Black. "Mind informing us?"

He didn't mind as he hung his head back, looking at the fluorescent lighting above and listening for their eerie hum. He never liked hospitals. "This contingency plan was really for the Marines only, we were never put into the plan." he relented. "Basically it's a giant intelligence gathering op combined with a mass introduction of American forces to the locals. Marine combat teams riding out with representatives of Italica and translators and, if possible, peacefully acquiring records of slave trading and documentation of said slaves. Once they get actionable intel we spring at the objectives: the captured civilians."

"…Huh, reminds me of that old plan from the Old Wars." Bannon had recounted a similar strategy being enacted by NATO and America during the ISIS War.

"It's a damn shame we're not being let out. Us Rangers live for this shit. Remember Black Hawk Down? Lone Survivor? Remember who saved those folk?"

"Always enthusiastic, aren't you Jameson?" Loke had sneered as Black rolled his eyes.

"It's hard not to be when you're next door to the woman you extracted with the rest of the team inside the Capital."

The two Rangers had remembered why the Special Task Force had escalated as it did, and that reason was behind a door within their reach.

"She open to visitors Black?"

He stroked his facial hair as he motioned down a few doors. "Yeah, I just came out from there to give my leg some exercise. That Ass-kisser Yanagida though, told us to tell her that the civilian lines to back home are not set up yet."

It was a complete lie, naturally, Bannon raising her eyebrow as she tightened her eyepatch. "You don't need to take orders from him, you know."

Black shrugged. "I've got a good feeling we should listen this time ya' know. I think it's for _a good reason_." the way he had stressed those final words in his peculiar accent had made Loke and Bannon tighten their jaws. The Japanese had known something more than they did regarding Noriko.

Of all the things the JSDF did in the Special Region, acting against the welfare of innocents and civilians hadn't been one of their MOs.

"You've talked to her?" Loke had asked for Bannon as she looked at the plain door that was supposedly Noriko's.

"Yeah. Fascinatin' young woman. Tad shy, but she's just glad to talk to someone who could understand her for once… even if my Japanese is terrible."

"Well you know enough to introduce us, private."

He had stood up, the exoskeleton around his leg whirring for a second, hands clasped. "Why not? Would rather talk to her than the Imperials they've got hosted up here."

"What?"

Black again had pointed with his rather precise fingers at the doors down, especially those with GSDF guards posted outside of. "The first Marine fireteams that came back brought back a few wounded, a few slaves… none of ours, but those that needed immediate medical attention."

"How are the deployments going, you hear?"

Black had shriveled his nose as a commotion came from one of those rooms, only to be settled as a guard had went into the room. "The RCTs are a bit trigger happy. The Marines have been exercising restraint by trying to peacefully evict any Imperial garrisons they find near the resource points, however at even a hint of hostilities the JSDF have been lighting them up like it's in style… might be a reason why the mine or camp managers are more willing to talk to the Gi-reens or Force Recon. Doesn't matter though, most of the RCTs stayed at their sites to enforce the JSDF's agenda I suppose." he had knocked against the Noriko's door once or twice as the two female Rangers had waited respectfully, arms behind their backs. "Hey, Noriko-chan, coming back in."

Black had opened the door to a rather peaceful sight: the small woman with a bob cut and several bandages adorning her exposed skin sitting in her bed, looking out to Arnus and the Corridor from her window view.

She had been given JSDF fatigues to wear, and, for a second, Bannon had mistaken her for one of the JSDF.

At her bedside had been a tray of pills and medication: the foot of the bed hugging with a table with vials of blood and other testing substances, Bannon specifically noticing a pregnancy test. Noriko was connected to an IV and had groggily looked over to Black before the two women.

" _Ohayō gozaimasu."_

Noriko had tried to dip her head in her bed, but predictability there hadn't been much room to do so.

Bannon and Loke had returned the platitude in Japanese as Black had taken his chair back and put it to the side of her bed. "Good morning Miss Noriko."

Noriko had frozen upon hearing her broken voice, and the Rangers had known it was because of Bannon's voice that it gave Noriko pause.

For what reason they had guessed incorrectly as Bannon hurriedly try to clear her throat as best she could.

" _I remember you."_

"What?"

Noriko had smiled kindly at Bannon as she heard her voice, unhidden. "You were there several nights ago at Zorzal's door during one of his nights with Tyuule."

Bannon's entire mind had sucked itself backed in as she remember her first meeting with Zorzal. As Zorzal had frozen her with the fact he had looked like someone she had thought she left behind in a different life, it distracted her from the fact that he had been bedding his sex slaves that particular night.

One of them had been Noriko, and she had remembered her voice.

"What?" Loke had been visibly confused, not informed of the incident that Emerson had taken Ortiz and Bannon into.

Stammering hadn't been something Bannon had been used to as she recollected her thoughts. "If-, If I had known-" she had licked her lips as she felt the urge to simply leave her own skin at that moment, but she had calmed down enough to breath out once and take a chair on the opposite side of Noriko's bed.

The Japanese woman had offered her hand, which Bannon had taken mercifully. "If I had known you were there, _**I would've**_ killed him on the spot. _**I would've done something**_." there was some pleading, some pitiful tone which Bannon used. It was not needed with her.

"But you couldn't have known, so I do not blame you."

Yet still Bannon had kept her head down. She needed to do something. Anything. For slaves, for prisoners, for people who did not deserve what they had been given. She understood what it was like.

"Sergeant Bannon, what's going on?" Black had tilted his head at his sergeant.

Bannon had looked up and licked her cracked lips as she said what she said. "When I was at Sadera Hill with Ortiz and Captain Emerson, I was very close to discovering her."

"Oh."

"You soldiers are always so serious, surely you can't all be like the videogames my younger brother plays, right?"

The way Noriko had seemed so chipper had defied the Rangers in a way, Loke sliding her rifle out of sight.

"Depends if you're an enemy or not." Black had half laughed, looking out the window to avoid making eye contact at the poor joke.

Noriko still saw merit in it. "Huh, I suppose you're right, especially what I saw in that throne room." Loke had frozen up a bit as Noriko had looked at her, knowing that she had been there. "Are you okay?"

The woman in the hospital bed hooked up to an IV had been the one asking the full bodied Ranger, her knife wound numbed, but still there. "I'll be fine ma'am, we came here to check up on you two, actually… well, maybe just you, we really don't care about Black."

"Coming from you Loke, that hurts." the two Rangers had laughed as Bannon and Noriko still held their hands. It was a rather needy grip, if anything. Still, for the next half hour as they made civilian conversation, it was a comfortable one.

* * *

"I did not realize that Kay Ro Bronxon was an American…" the topic of friends and family had brought Noriko to talk about Emerson. Or, at least, Kay Ro Bronxon. "The way Zorzal talked about how Pina had clung to him and his teachings, I wouldn't think he was anyone who could help me."

" _ **You LIED to me!"**_ Emerson's scream at Pina had still been fresh in Loke's mind.

"He did not know of your existence, none of us did." she said, defending, if it was necessary, her captain.

Noriko had nodded understandingly. "Zorzal often bellyached on how we an internal spy for this "infernal power called America". Kay's… I mean, Captain Emerson's exploits in the gladiator arena and with the senators seemed to have me agree with him."

"It's rather dangerous what kind of reputation Captain Kay has brought himself." Black had been every wary of titles and nicknames. His own last name was intimidating enough in his view.

"Demon Lord, Father of Sin," the Japanese woman wandered in her mind on his titles and how they brought fear. "…his name was starting to spread out throughout the Empire's provinces and cities according to Zorzal. More specifically through both the princess and the gladiators. They both speak so highly of him that they really assume he is a new apostle."

"You seem to know a lot about the Empire from Zorzal." Black had raised his eyebrow.

"I suppose that is what I'm worth to my country now: a very first hand account of this place…" The Rangers had a pang of sadness ring through them for her. Her words were not untrue. She was simply an asset, an excuse, at that point. They knew the theme. A person as an excuse can only last so long, but starting off, they can drive a nation to extremes.

"Do you know about any other slaves that were taken?" Bannon had asked, the soldier side of her kicking in, wanting to grab intelligence.

" _Mikita-_ " Noriko had paused as she caught herself halfway into a name. "I am not allowed to discuss details about the other slaves until further notice." her mind had drifted back to black hair, blue eyes, and a particular accent she didn't hear associated with Americans usually. He had been the one who fought the most…

"Mikita?" Loke had repeated, but Noriko wouldn't specify as she held her mouth. "Ah, I see. I won't push it then."

"I'd like to call my family. I want them to know that I'm alright." the change of subject had turned the tenseness on the Rangers, Noriko's request sudden.

The blood had drained from Black's face as the two female Rangers hardened their faces momentarily.

"Oh, sorry, hun'," Bannon had winced as she made a mental note to herself to curtail her use of that word more often. "We're under orders to not call back to our homes as of right now. Operational security."

"Oh…"

Bannon had licked her lips as she straightened her shirt, glancing at the watch on her wrist, standing up and making to leave, Loke and Black standing up with her by habit. "If there's anything we could do for you, feel free to ask, we're going to be nearby for a next week or so, probably."

"Thank you for the offer Miss….?"

"Bannon. Staff Sergeant Lisa Bannon."

Lisa had been a rather foreign name to Noriko as a Japanese, but it had sounded so familiar to her anyway. "Like, Mona Lisa?"

"With this…?" Bannon had pointed to her eye. "Doubtful."

Black and Loke had both bowed and said their own goodbyes as they both turned to their sergeant, she leading to way out, a frown hidden on her lips as the door closed. They switched to their native tongue.

"There might be more like her out there." Loke had breathed out, her head on the wall next to the door tiredly, Black nodding at the two women, leaving upon the fact he had to walk down for an appointment in another wing of the building.

"Well, hope the Marines and the JSDF find something then." Bannon's music player had come out as she responded, her ear buds were unfurled from her pocket, draped around her neck as Loke had went her own way, her arms in the air.

"Either way, we're in for some serious downtime."


	30. 2-10: Crown of Thorns - American Sin

A/N: I think I'm too exhausted to have a proper Author's Notes, but I'll try.

 _ **JuniorVB**_ : Awesome review streak.

 _ **praetorianprefect**_ : Yeah, somethings never change. I really wanted Emerson or Bannon to get a Nagant from the Hakone shootout, but I'm fine with having Bannon inherit her "British" roots and Emerson take a cue from Skullface from MGSV.

 _ **wpago**_ : And, you'll get a good raid scene sooner or later. Full on war could possibly be coming. Not that it's desirable.

 _ **Benolition**_ : Fully acknowledged. But here's my thing with it: A lot of the actions I have with the Japanese is just branching off of canon actions, and I do acknowledge that they do have a step up on the Marines in their areas of expertise which is general humanitarian aid (albeit drafted more on domestic instead of international aid relief).

 ** _Crueldwarf_** : Thanks for the advice, I'll change it when I revamp and revise this summer. Appreciate you chiming in, Mikita will be my... well, let's just say Russian represenative character, in the future.

 ** _Tikigod784:_** I do actually plan to have the Gods really, really upset at the Special Task Force in some way, but not at the individuals. And seeing as the Gods can't outright interact with the physical world they'll have to use their apostles to that affect. And because you posed that question: During the Garden Party I put in a scene where 'someone' is talking to Emerson. He won't be the only one. Also, it was the Capital bombing that really sent me off my rocker. It was like seeing Baghdad bombed again, or reading about Dresden or Hanoi. It wasn't even a military target: it was a symbol of the people and of the republic. To have the JSDF destroy that means a lot more than rubble and revenge.

 _ **BrokenLifeCycle**_ : Yeah, that's the point of it all actually: War is a meatgrinder in full swing, and it spares neither the poets, the lovers, or the killers.

 ** _McKringles_** : The first, in my opinion, big divergence happens in this chapter. Oh god, I know, I need an injection of hope sooner or later, but I'll use it when I can, especially with this flame dragon arc coming up. I feel bad doing this to my characters, trust me. Also, good analysis, especially with Pina and the Luger.

 _ **Natcraw:**_ Perhaps.

 _ **Into**_ : I'm going to not comment on making a joke about Pina's, or any other alcoholic-themed Imperial's, names. I mean, different cultures, different names: Vietnamese have a name that's pronounced as Fuck, the Chinese name for Dragon King is "Long Wang", etc. Gotta stay open to other cultures.

 ** _In General_** : 32k words people, get ready. Big things happen.

* * *

 ** _Section 2-10_**

 ** _Posted on 4/6/16_**

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 50_**

 ** _Falmart – Italica – The Fromar Keep_**

* * *

Emerson had woken up as men of readiness always do: a snap from his pillow which left him breathless and in a cold sweat. Gasping for air, coming from a dream about a role assumed and a halberd held.

Ever since Italica he had dreamed the dream of what people made him out to be.

"You didn't look like you were having too much fun in slumber, princess." It had been Masterson at Emerson's bedside, despite his teasing, his mouth had been in a frown, his face: concern. Emerson opened his mouth to say something but all he had gotten out was a croak, pulling back, not saying anything at all. Masterson smacked his mouth a few times before following up. "Yeah, yeah, you get off sleeping pills and you start having all sorts of dreams, don't worry about it, alright Kay?"

Masterson has known Emerson had been having a bad dream by just how he had wrestled in his bed. However he didn't report it, he wouldn't. He didn't want to lose his captain to some psychological issue that seemed trivial to him.

He didn't want to lose his best friend.

"It's been two days." Masterson had seen Emerson glance at the clock at his bedside in the royal room. "But don't worry, Lisa and me have been taking care of the guys and the paperwork. Getting us back to green in case they need us back out there again…. here, Emerson's Special… or at least, my best imitation of it.

A tray of Emerson's particular brand of milk and whatever other supplements he could scrounge up had been put besides an apple and a pair of waffles smuggled from the chow hall.

The thing about Emerson's dreams was that they had left him speechless: left him less than a man without the use of language as he recollected himself the morning he woke up. Itami had seen this once, at Risa's house, however this was the first time Masterson had seen it: written across Emerson's face almost as plainly as the scar Bozes had left for him.

"That's the thing about dreams." Masterson had started on one of his spiels. Comfortable words to Emerson's ears. "I've never had any. Don't ever remember if I did. Not as a child, not as a vagabond, not as an adult. Guess my mind isn't the sort to accommodate such fantastical images while I sleep." Emerson had still looked at him in silence as he had played maid for him, gathering a bundle of fatigues for him to put at the foot of his bed, his M16A2 having been fully zeroed by him yesterday and placed next to the clothes. "Don't know what it's like to dream, but I figure it might be a little like this Special Region, I imagine. This land… this fantasy land, I'm sure it has existed in some son bitch's head for years as some sort of fucked up coincidence. So here we are, living in their dream…"

" _Cam…_ " his first words.

"Are you alright, captain?" the formality from Masterson had meant that he had been serious.

Emerson had bucked up with hearing Masterson like that. It meant he had a job to do, and a person to be. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be alright."

"We all are in the end…" his words were soft as he squared his back and saluted once, seriously. "If you need me Kay, I'll be filing my post actions in the dining hall and preparing for the men in black to come for Loke, Ramirez, Doc, and me."

And he stood there: as a soldier should as Emerson uneasily got out of bed, the only thing on his form being his slacks and scars. He was a changing man and it pained Masterson to see it. He didn't know why Kay had changed, but it was something he would've refused to acknowledge either way:

It had been war. War had changed Emerson. War would change them all eventually.

Emerson had looked over his shoulder once or twice, his back to Masterson as he realized what he was supposed to do. "Ah, right. Dismissed."

* * *

I saw Cam go off into the hallway with a nod, the man having his M4 slung across his back loosely: his boots washed clean from the events at the Capital. They were cleaner than me at that point, but I could go to the bath later.

If there was anything that was going to save my mind that morning it was routine, and as far as I was concerned this was just another day on the job, and what happened to me, to the Empire, two nights ago was just another footnote. That's what I told myself. That's what I let into my mind as I slid out of my sheets and faced the windows, the open panes blowing in fresh air that draped over me in some soothing peace that Masterson could've easily afforded me as well.

The descending feeling. It stayed with me after days like the one I had come out.

After Italica, after Arnus, after Ginza: this feeling of falling and falling into a numb dark head first. It wasn't a panicking fall. It was the knowing fall: the one that kept a person up at night as they realized, in some small part, they had looked into the abyss and came out.

It was the feeling that a person would keep in a shoebox in the corner of their mind and never opened, even until the day they died.

I put my horror in a shoebox and forgot how lost Pina would've been feeling now, without us, and stood, compressing my shoulder blades as I brought in my arms. The creaking of my bones and muscles had been some relief as I got on the floor and did my routine.

I was always mystified with movies that took place in New York, movies with the word American in them. It was a part of who I was, and where I grew up. I was never really a movie buff, but movies had often been in the background as I studied in college and high school.

One of those movies which had taken place in New York and had American in it was a movie I hadn't exactly been too interest in watching at the time, but drew an important lesson of the morning routine from:

 _ **American Psycho.**_

How morbid I thought that I had immediately gone right into the routine of a crazed psychopath after a night that I would probably take to my grave. Still, my body needed to be maintained, and morality had no place in physique.

People worked out to get over stress, right?

My first stomach crunches were like old poetry. I could've done a thousand now…

* * *

"Your protein shakes are shit, Cam." Masterson had been lazily writing his own post action report as he snapped around from his chair at the end of the table, the rest of Hitman that was present either using the rather grand space for further hand to hand drills or using their downtime consuming any sort of media they could. They hadn't Itami's sense of constant connection with manga or anything of the like.

"That sounds like the Kay I know!" he had nearly knocked over his own laptop and several glasses as he sprung his arms outward. "And sorry."

"It's fine, Cam. Thanks for trying." Emerson had relented sympathetically, many of the Rangers around turning about and waving a good morning at their weary captain.

 _"And the reaper cometh, eh?"_ That nickname, Reaper, it had been spoken the same way Demon Lord and Father of Sin had been in the Capital. Now he had accepted it however as one of the Rangers had joked about in the morning, all of them lounging casually by the windows like domestic cats. Some of them had reached their hands out at the windows like paws, and saw the black dots that were the helicopters from the JSDF combat teams and the Marines.

Masterson had pulled out a chair for Emerson which he had adamantly accepted. The Winchester had been on the table with the rest of the thirty or so weapons of Hitman, all having been supremely zeroed and run through maintenance the day after. It was better for the attention of the Rangers to be focused on that checkup than the implications of their actions. That and it had spared the Marine armory sergeants some stress.

Masterson had grabbed Emerson's forearm as he reached to it.

"Now I'm not the type of southern boy that grew up in Louisiana, but hell, I do believe that thing has some bad juju to it Kay."

"It's just a weapon, Cam."

"No," he had taken the Winchester himself. "It's a Winchester Model '94 chambered in thirty aught six, cut down in the barrel and stock, the stock itself replaced with the bones of an Imperial General…. how the fuck did you even get this done?"

Masterson had known a few things about firearms, moreso than most of Hitman, perhaps just as well as Loke had known guns, but it was doubtful even Loke would've been able to figure out how Imperials were able to graft human bone into the shape of a stock and temper it enough to survive further use.

Emerson had chuckled as Masterson finally let him hold his takeaway from the Hakone resort, running his thumbs over gold designs of the Yakuza in its receivers. "Pina and me, we went out to some swordsman after I killed Foulke. I thought she was going to give me a tour of the Empire's weaponsmiths, but no, she wanted me to actually put the gun in for servicing. Wanted to give me an Imperial weapon to hold on my hip..." Emerson dozed off as he remembered the dark basement Pina had brought him into. "Pina brought me to this place where a smith worked; same smith that provided the weapons for her 600 strong Rose Order. She told me something about repairing my weapon, and that this weaponsmith she brought me to would do it."

"Few security concerns about that. I'm sure it's going to be a guy with a photographic memory that's gonna give these locals a gun…" Masterson had warned, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair.

Emerson shook his head. "No, nah. I let them only touch the stock, and I was over their god damn shoulders the entire time…"

Masterson had looked at the dull white of the stock again: the end of it wrapped up in, surprisingly, the fabric of a Rose Order cape. "Was it your idea to have the bones of your enemy used?"

"No, actually. That was Pina's. She had Foulke's decomposing body brought into that basement, his eyes still gouged out-"

"Wait wait wait wait, you gouged his EYES out?"

"He was going to kill me." the simple answer Emerson gave had given Masterson pause enough for Emerson to continue none the wiser. "And yeah, his body was brought down. Armor was still on it too… anyway, Pina told me that ancient gladiators used to make clubs from the bones of fallen foes so I just rolled with it as they started too…" Emerson trailed off, remembering how Foulke's body was picked apart in artistic savagery. "Where' my ruck?"

Masterson had been taken by surprise by Emerson's question. The ruck in question had been with the others in some corner of the room.

"Hey, Ortiz! Captain's ruck!" Masterson had ordered down by the windows, the appropriate bag brought over to Masterson and then Emerson.

Out from the bag had come out the chest plate and armored skirt of General Foulke. What was once white and silver, now carbonized black.

It was after a few seconds of appreciative gazing did Emerson start nodding, closing his eyes. "Yeah, you're right Cam. Just, keep this all in storage, alright? Unless I need to go undercover again." the armor had been dropped on the table and put aside.

Masterson had taken one of the M45s from the table before locking it back and inserting a magazine, the slide release sending the gun into ready before he put up the safety. With a twirl, he handled the grip to Emerson, and the man had taken it gladly to fill his thigh holster. "That's what I want to hear…" he had motioned over the table at the entire smorgasbord of Ranger armament. "Well the gear is all set and I heard Mitch is supposed to pick me and the rest up around nowish. You alright taking over babysitting duty in the meanwhile?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'm sure Youji will wake up eventually too."

"Right…" Masterson drifted off, looking down the hallway toward RCT's posted barracks. "You guys, I dunno, cool?"

"Cool about what?"

Masterson had awkwardly tried to make things casual. "I don't know, it's just, well, we kinda took their woman and saddled up and away without them, you know? We left them behind." he had looked down to the floor, his thumbs twiddling. He had been fiddling with his bowie knife against a piece of wood, carving some sort of point to it.

Emerson had blinked at Masterson's uncharacteristic timidity. "Sounds like guilt."

"I suppose." Emerson had taken one of Masterson's Peacemakers, the man sliding out each round with the ejector rod into his palm, placing them up right on the table. "I did… I saw a lot of things back at that throne room that I think I'll take to my grave. I don't want wronging the Japanese to be one of those items."

Emerson had tried twirling the empty revolver over his index finger to little success, the metal hunk falling the ground in a clatter as Masterson picked it up instead. He had found holsters for them instead of just shoving it into his waist band. "We're fine, Cam. We're all good. Things are just tense now because, well, you know."

The choppers hadn't stopped their frequency rates, and open comm traffic had filled some of the Hitmen in on some of the information gathered.

The radio on the table between the two Hitmen had been going off as well as the rest had tuned in to the RTO's own kit, listening for a "war" they were missing out on.

 _"This is Assassin 2-2, reporting eight plus enemy casualties from JSDF intervention. Request CASEVAC for survivors. Over."_

 _"RCT5 requests that Assassin 5-3 also carry over the HAZMAT kits during exfiltration, reports of some sort of slug creature currently in a crystal mine."_

 _"We have eyes on Imperial cavalry convoy, please advise."_

"And once again we are the unwilling advance force for the invasion…" Masterson had been more than aware his part of being who he was in the Special Task Force. The Rangers and the Marines had always gone in first, but the Japanese had stayed in all cases save Italica. Coda Village, Chuka's Dewan Village, now rebuilt with the metal of a Japanese firebase, and another on at the base of the Roche Hills. The Americans had been there first, but it was the Japanese that took it over in the end, just as they wanted.

"Do you remember why we came here, Cam?"

He hadn't vocally answer as he had brought out his dog tags: three of them on his ball and chain around his neck. One more than usual. That extra slice of metal had been Tracey's.

Us Rangers were the only ones that cared about him like this.

"I don't mean why we're here Cam. I'm talking about all of us."

He cupped the bottom of his chin as he considered, his clean shave recent, his blonde hair gently bobbing in the cold draft from the grand open windows, looking into nothingness as his gaze soured. "I should've shot the emperor. We would've been done with this all."

"You don't mean that."

Masterson finally gave Emerson the answer he wanted. "We came here to hold the people responsible for the Ginza Incident and to start diplomatic ties with the Empire."

 _"RCT2 is currently requesting the exfiltration of fifty-plus slaves from the Saccharive Farm site… how copy Assassin, over."_

"Makes you think, don't it?" Emerson had said as the radio went on with the "battle" chatter.

When Masterson had gotten out his chair in such an environment it usually meant he had been ready to rant. A habit of his that Hitman had long and away recognized. They appreciated the free show as many reeled in to listen to their staff sergeant.

"No, sir, I do not like thinking about it." he had paced back and forth on one side of the table. Finishing his first sentence he had holstered his Peacemakers, holding his M4 across his chest in a cradle. "I am a soldier of the American military deployed abroad, and so it is fit that I am to be held accountable for what the people throughout the world think about Americans. In the thirty years I've been alive me and my comrades in arms have not been gauged by how we think, but rather, how we act. Hooah?"

 _"Hooah."_ the gathered Rangers responded, even Emerson nodding.

Masterson went on as the maids started to congregate next to the Rangers. "This is not to say I, or any of you, are mindless grunts, am I right Nutt you educated bastard?"

"Of course sir." the man had chuckled as he took a knee.

"But whatever I may think, it really doesn't matter. _**It doesn't matter**_ ," he shook his head at himself as he motioned to the beautiful maids, they all bowing their heads and blushing at Masterson paying attention to them as he spoke his form of American English. "I could want peace and prosperity or rape and ravaging over these fine people, but in the end it's what THEY think that matters the most."

"Why Cam?" Emerson had goaded.

"I have a buddy who's deployed to Afghanistan right now, actually. We went to boot camp together." Afghanistan and Iraq had still forever held America's soul, and as such American military forces were still there today even after all this time. In some areas it had been like both local and American forces had been trapped in a constant insurgencies forever, as if the year had been permanently 2014. "Funny thing is, his father, and his grandfather, were deployed to Afghanistan all the same. His grandfather went into Afghanistan while touting his anti-war bullshit, claimed he never fired a shot in anger over there. His father went in and killed a few people, not too proud of it, but he did his duty. My friend? He wanted to go there and kill them all so his child didn't have to follow his family's fate."

"Your point, Cam?"

"They all thought different things about Afghanistan and the people fighting them there, but let me tell you, the only thought that mattered were the _**goatfuckers**_ that brought them there." Masterson passed his hands over his cheek for a second, as if contemplating, looking again to the maids. "My friend… he is now fighting his own, equivalent, generation in that damned country, but he told me this before I came here: For three generations Afghanis have thought only one thing about us American troops, brought down from their grandfathers that fought his."

"What do they think?"

"That we are the devil spawn, the men in black, the willing carriers of death to innocent people… As long as _**they**_ think _**that**_ about _**us**_ , we might as well be just mindless grunts. It's been the same for over three-four generations for them, and perhaps that is the reason why we're still there."

The door was opened abruptly as Masterson finished his spiel: the men in black finally came.

America's boogeymen, the top 1% of America's special forces and special operators, had been the CIA's Special Activities Division.

The Rangers that were Hitmen were never claimed to be America's absolute premier special forces group. They were only Tier 2 in the organization, below SEAL Team Six and the Deltas, however the men that stood before them now in black chest rigs and tan cargo pants were a league of their own.

It might've been easy to think of Hitman as the best infantry on that side of the Gate, but the Rangers had made no mental argument as they stood before the operators responsible for changing their own world.

CIA SOGs from the Special Activities Division, helmed by one old man who had considerably armored up and revealed a fighter's form that many wouldn't think possible at his age. "Mister Masterson, Miss Loke, Mister Lamareux, and Mister Ramirez, your presence is requested at Camp Omega." Agent Mitchell Beckett had been to the point as for why he had been there, six other black geared operators with watch caps present, they wielding MCRs across their chest. Big black suppressors had been over their barrels, the rifles themselves coated a distorted woodland.

The Rangers in question had all appeared promptly in a line before the CIA spooks, Mitch looking them all up and down before exchanging a look at Emerson. They knew why they were here. "Captain Emerson, do you mind telling them how long they would be gone at most?"

Emerson looked at his watch, it had been thirteen hundred hours, and the four Rangers that hadn't yet been interviewed had been long awaiting for this to happen. "We'll probably see you back for dinner."

"Don't worry, this is just standard operating procedure." An Agent Heidegger had patted down Masterson, taking his two revolvers out and into a bag.

He had coughed in his mouth as Heidegger crossed his hand over his buttocks. "I believe you, just don't touch my nuts, I ain't got nothing to hide." It sounded almost pleading.

Loke rolled her eyes as another agent had patted her down with the same thoroughness. "Suck it up, Sergeant Masterson."

Mitch had chuckled as he pointed at Ramirez. "Squeamishness isn't what I'd expect out of you lot… Roger, Chuck, get the vet."

" _The vet?_ " Ramirez had heard his title as hands had patted his sides and his belt, his arms out. "My reputation precedes me."

"There are only about a dozen other people in this Special Task Force who have been through what you have, Mister Ramirez." Mitch had looked at his watch as he admitted the fact. They had a schedule to keep and this little ordeal at the Capital had been a detour evidently.

"I suppose you're one of them?" Ramirez had looked into the eyes of the main CIA agent.

Mitch raised an eyebrow, the man's intuition serving him right. "I'm just a left over trying to keep busy, Mister Ramirez… not like working the beat back in San Francisco would count as keeping busy for you, right?"

"Some days I wish I was still a cop." Ramirez admitted. He was there though, and in his mind that is what counted.

"They're clear boss."

Mitch had chuckled a little deviously as the SOGs each took a Ranger and walked them out. "Alright, come on Rangers, this'll be nice and painless."

A thought had slashed across Emerson's head as he saw the fact the operators had no markings on them. "Do the JSDF know that you SOGs are here?"

Mitch had shrugged as he was the last man out. "I have no idea what you're talking about Emerson."

The door had shut with a slam and the dining room was left with its remaining complement of Rangers, the sound of a few ATVs taking off in the distance the only noise to beckon the Rangers to keep going on their business.

Khan had been as silent as a ghost, whining, tilting his head as he rubbed his claws against the floor anxiously. Nutt had leaned down to settle the dog's nerves with a pet. "Yeah, I don't trust anyone who makes more than me too, boy."

"You make only 30k a year, Nutt, that's a lot of people you don't trust." Peters had drawn Khan's attention fully as the dog lapped out its tongue, circling around the man's legs away from Nutt.

"Hell, if it was about money, most of us would've been better off not going in." Harris as a college ball player had very much been a successful one. Still there was some part of his soul that called him to duty for his country. He had been a very rough man, but amicable, as long as no one thought too hard about the fact he had been cheating on his estranged wife abroad.

"How much you think those CIA guys get paid?"

"Classified, and," Masterson's double barrel shotgun had been left by him, Emerson picking it up as he answered one of his Rangers, a hacksaw stuck half way between the two barrels. Masterson had been in the middle of drastic modifications which matched the end of the barrel to the wooden grip of the shotgun. "For them, it's definitely not about being paid."

The sawing continued with Emerson's own grip, the sound of metal on metal jarring to Khan as Nutt resumed petting in between the dog's ears.

"How long you think those spooks been here?" he asked.

A Ranger had shrugged as they pouted behind Nutt, the man turning around. "I'd rather not ask questions I don't want to hear the answers to…" they patted the patch on their shoulder: a reminder of the unit they were in. "I'm not some Frogman or a Delta, I like my missions to not be covered up in black tape."

The thought of Delta Force had drifted Emerson's mind to one of the trainees who had flunked out of Delta selection as he grinded through metal.

"Where's Sergeant Bannon anyway?"

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill - Camp Omega**_

* * *

Black had a rifle returned to him as he was allowed out into the outdoors to walk. Asides from the mechanical frame on his lower right leg he had looked normal, his desert camouflage uniform on him trimly with the woodland chest rig. They were in the entry way of the hospital, getting ready on the bench just shy of the entry way.

Noriko had been the one to walk Black out. Her own recovery had been going swiftly, and the secret as to why she was not allowed to call back to Japan had been revealed to Black, and by extension, Bannon.

She was a missing person from before the Ginza Incident. Her abduction: by Imperials all the same.

The Gate had been open in some way from before that fateful day in August, and it had swallowed Noriko, and several others, as well. Those captured had told the promise of a new land past the Gate.

In a sense, it was Noriko and her captured compatriots that made possible the Ginza Incident. However there was no blame to be given to her because of it; just a fanning eventuality from her taking sprawling out into the inevitabilities of an empire.

"Gift from Blackburn." Bannon had said, she also in rather full kit. If she was going to take Black on a walk, then she was going to run. She knew physical training like anyone else in Hitman, and she had made it a part of the routine that kept her sane.

The rifle had been a dust colored Mk17 rifle: a SCAR. A marksman's rifle true and true, scope riding the top and a bipod/foregrip along the bottom of the barrel, chambered in five fifty six.

"God, what a relic." The bolt had went back as Black seated in a mag, flicking the safety to on as he caught the ejected round and sent the bolt forward, no ammo chambered.

Bannon had shrugged at Black's observation, a few of such rifles had found their way into Hitman, supplementing their M4s and M16s. "The lieutenant commander told me that this was one of the original rifles issued to the Rangers back during the 2000s. Must still be worth it."

"Oh delightful, certainly going to match this gear" he shook his kit rather pointedly, "which were given to Marines back in '04. Christ, I can still smell the piss and Ripfuel on it."

"Yeah well it'll smell like you once I'm done taking you for a walk today."

"Five miles as usual?"

"Affirmative."

"Easy peasy, and if I break this leg of mine you're going to be the one who's going to carry me back, right sarge?"

"You're literally the only one of us who is supposed to stay still Black, a little exercise here and there should do you good." Bannon had chided the marksman as she filled some of the empty pockets on her own rig with rocks.

"You're a sadist, you know that?" Black had observed Bannon adding weight to her own kit as madness, but to her it was simply her doing a 110%. Emerson had that effect on her. To see his own capacity to work had helped her know what pushing it really meant. It had done her good.

Black got no answer as he had finally clacked his chest carrier on tight, his right leg numb, but usable with the metal skeleton around it. It was as if it was good as new.

In a world where a broken leg could be cured in a week and cancer treatments were, comparably, a buck fifty, a Ranger could run five miles in a fantasy land with an exoskeleton helping him along.

"We go around the camp twice, then into the Corridor."

"Ladies first."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega – Lieutenant General Hazama's Office**_

* * *

"Noelle you've got a lot of fucking balls by engaging in a brawl with the entire JSDF fighter pilot roster here." Pierce's voice had burned much like his blue eyes, right through Noelle's head.

The two Rangers running around the perimeter of Arnus Hill just outside of his window had barely distracted Noelle from being stared down by both Pierce and Hazama in one go.

A pilot's ego had only gone so far when put up against the brass. That was something, at least, that the JSDF and the Marine pilots had in common. As such, Noelle and "God", Lieutenant Colonel Mikoda's callsign, had been sitting in the hot seats.

Mikoda had a black eye sitting there, Noelle having one of his front teeth chipped from a chair used as a weapon against his face, a cut on his lip still fairly fresh.

"And you! What right do you have taking the entire barracks like some street gang and coming to confront the Marine pilots at the Officer's House?!" Hazama had also talked in fury. It was something that the two commanders could come together on in the sudden division presented in the Special Task Force.

Mikoda had looked away with a twinge in his blackened eyes. "Respectfully, lieutenant general, they shot at us!"

"Permission to speak-"

"Permission denied! Lieutenant Colonel Noelle!" Pierce had barked at the offending man.

The room itself had been Hazama's office in the HQ, white walls, wooden book shelfs, and updated maps of the Special Region had adorned the space alongside a view of Arnus and their side of the Corridor.

It was a strict, pomp, room fit for the Lieutenant General, but it had been so surreal to the two pilots. It had felt like they were back on base in Japan. Still, that was the point to the JSDF. Japan had been grafted onto Arnus Hill and the surrounding communities with the Corridor, and, to the Japanese government, they were one and the same.

Even to Mikoda there was no homely feeling here as Pierce's aggravation bounced around the room like a grating echo.

"Alright, we get it. He," Pierce pointed at Noelle, "shot at you. We get that! But you're here! Aren't you? We didn't send a Marine fireteam to shoot you up in your cockpit when you touched down, did we? The JSDF and my Marines weren't engaging in a ground war when you two returned! What right do you two have going on your own personal egoist crusade for respect?!"

Pierce would've punched the man, he really would've, but if he was allowed to do that he would've gone further and killed Noelle.

In fact he did raise his hands toward his neck, just barely, they did, enough for Noelle to see the man's palms. They were all just one big callous now, white and faded lines crossing them. Pierce had been a broken-in man, and broken as a man.

This all contrasted to the fighter pilots. Those who had the care in the world anymore to take gel to their hair in the morning and stride around the Corridor as if they were movie stars. The JSDF pilots were especially guilty of this.

The helicopter pilots, the fighter pilots, they all had been revered as angels to the Special Region inhabitants, and even though the Special Task Force was briefed specifically not to play god it went to the heads of some more than others.

For some, it was only a fuel to the fire. For some, they felt the responsibility of being that higher being to the Special Region. Noelle was of the latter.

However they were not here to discuss to matter of the Capital bombings, they were here to discuss the brawl. It was hard to not stray from the path however with tensions running so high outside those walls.

"Lieutenant Colonel Mikoda, what the hell were you thinking bringing your squadron pilots with you to Delilah's?" Hazama had pressed with his pilot.

"I wanted to make sure Noelle could look at me in the eye after what happened."

Hazama had thrown his hands up in the air as he looked up at the ceiling as well, trying to find any sensible reasoning it seemed to Mikoda's explanation. "Does it matter?"

"I hope a man would be abl-"

"It doesn't matter!" Hazama had answered for Mikoda. "That behavior has no place in this environment and we'll have to write up not only for assault but for disturbing the peace!"

"Disturbing the peace?" Mikoda had almost laughed. "Then why don't you write that pig up?!" he pointed at Noelle.

"You bomb that capital you throw every excuse of peace and a diplomatic option out the window! It's what we did and look where it landed us! I don't want to see another war fought here like we have."

"Oh, so you think history is indicative of mistakes? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you mistake us as _**American**_! Only Americans have made the mistakes you have made consistently throughout these last few decades!" Mikoda fired back.

"You condescending piece of shit Noelle." Pierce had lent his own voice into the argument he had meant to stop. It had surprised Mikoda the most. He had been expected a bark at him for the accusation.

"What?"

Pierce had spoken as a Marine to a fly boy. A Marine as in a man who had Afghani dust in his laces forever embedded underneath crusted blood, a Marine who had stepped in Tehran as the conquering force, a Marine who had finally ended the war on terror and then invaded the last bastion of the Cold War.

"You think you know, you understand, war like I do Noelle? The wars you base your senseless logic on?"

"You don't understand what I mean, sir?"

"No I don't." Of all people, Noelle had thought, Pierce should've been stepping up against Hazama like he had done. Pierce had thought differently. "Yes, I did try to stop Lieutenant General Hazama from bombing the capital, but not because of the same reason you used."

Hazama had raised his eyebrow as Pierce paced in front of the two pilots.

"I didn't care what happened to the Middle East. We glassed that sandbox and everyone in it. I didn't care how it became like, what we did wrong, how history will view us. That's not a concern on the battlefield. Any Marine my age who fought the last ten years would feel the same. You have to not care about it." he stopped in front of the map of the known area of the Special Region. It was a digital display mounted on the wall: a button press revealing two versions, one by UAV and the other by local cartographer. " _ **I don't care what happens to this Special Region**_. I care about my Marines and the events that might lead to them suffering in this Special Region."

"Adrian?" Hazama had said Pierce's name as he refused to turn and look them all in the eye, his shoulders slumped, defeated from a battle long ago.

"Deep, deep down inside… that's what I feel." he turned, his big palm hitting his chest, the jingle of his dog tags underneath his uniform muffled. "And I dare you, ask me that in front local, in front of the people here."

Mikoda and Noelle sunk back into their seats.

The Japanese had understood what Pierce had meant as he grinded his fake teeth. In Japanese culture it was understood that a person had three faces: one they showed the world, one they showed those close to them, and one they only knew.

Pierce had let known what was the one he kept private.

"By god, I know that rage Noelle. I know what it feels like to act on that rage. But killing with that feeling brings nothing. That's why I stopped them. Not because of our mistakes, not because of the historical coincidences we all saw, but because of that simpler thing. It matters more."

Hazama had never lost his cool, but Pierce had, and only now did he calm down as he brought his hands back in and closed them into fists, leaning on Hazama's desk, fingers trembling as he breathed out.

Tense seconds had passed. No birds had been present over the Corridor to fill in the silence. The local wildlife hadn't been too acclimated into the Corridor yet, because of that the usual wildlife of vague deer-like animals, wolves, and jays had been absent.

"Noelle, I personally owe you my life. This is not the first time I've told you this. Can you please tell me why that is so?" Pierce had started back up again.

Noelle had ran his hands against his knees as he sat, unable to look into Pierce's defiantly blue eyes. He cringed as he said it. "My flight was the only one on station when OPPLAN 5029 went down. I was your only air support when you took up positions on the North Korean firebase and dismantled their only forward artillery positions."

"Specifically, Matthew, what did you do?"

"I dropped my entire payload on the armored units that were immediately responding to you with my flight. You cleaned up the soft targets easy enough, but then an entire infantry division was heading your way…"

"I sent out my Force Recon teams to the AA sites so that you were given air superiority."

"Yeah… so then I just..." Noelle had lost himself as he remembered the Korean War. He was unable to vocalize as Pierce picked up where he left off.

"It was the very first time in the twenty first century a combat aircraft had to strafe a human horde. The recorded footage from your plane alone is what Harrier pilots were drilled about prior to them coming here."

It wasn't a turkey shoot, it was more of a carving.

"I killed so many people. That's why they gave me my commendation." Noelle said it with a straight face as he recollected himself. He spoke like he had been knowing of what he had done.

Pierce pulled out his commendation from his uniform's pocket. A five-point, bronze starred, medal: in the middle of it displaying the battles of two rather ironic gods: Minerva versus Discord. Flicking it to Mikoda, he catching it snappily.

"Do you know what that is, Lieutenant Colonel Mikoda?" Pierce had asked, holding his own hands over his front.

The JSDF pilot had nodded. "The Medal of Honor."

He had nodded. "Why do you think I was awarded such a thing?"

Noelle had been drawn into the question Pierce had been posing to his counterpart. Mikoda had answered without hesitation. "For bravery, courage… preservation to the mission…" he trailed off before remembering the title of a videogame that was forever fated to compete with a series named after the medal he was holding. It was, crudely, the only way he remembered it. "…and going above and beyond the call of duty."

After running his thumbs over the renowned American medal the JSDF pilot had flicked it back to Pierce, the man handing it over to Noelle, he doing the same in curiosity.

"They told me I saved South Korea when they gave me this medal; told me I was responsible for saving millions of lives by stalling the advance to Seoul and giving civilians time enough to evacuate. They told me I tripped up the entire invasion by taking over the artillery firebase and redirecting its guns and rockets up and down the front. They told me I made history and made the Corps proud." Noelle had looked back up at Pierce as he took back his medal, not even looking at it as he pocketed that representation of American honor and gratitude. To him the medal only reminded him of how many men he had given up to die because of his orders. "They didn't tell me I earned this medal because I killed people."

"But we did."

"Yes sir, _**we did**_. But that's not the reason they gave you a citation and me the honor of holding this medal with me. I hoped you would've known better, Noelle, but hell, with the way you've always painted those kill marks on your nose like your some Red Baron, trying to fly outside the AO's bonds trying to find a dragon to shoot down… it was obvious."

"Sir." Noelle had pleaded.

"There's more to war than killing and the anger you use to do it. More than the fight. You've never had to rub shoulders with the communities on the ground, those people. You really want to know what killing does to the living? Go down to our psych ward and look at the survivors of Italica's militia force." he pointed out to the Corridor out the window, and then to the Rangers. "Corporal O'Neal even, you know how much _**he envies the dead**_."

"But he lost his family sir!" Noelle had tried to argue, but Pierce had opened his arms, silent, Noelle being told non-verbally that Tracey O'Neal wasn't the only soldier that died in war that had a family. Hazama had twinged. He never forgot that over seven hundred Japanese civilians died at Ginza.

"You only do it when it's the last option, and what happens next because of it is our responsibility for all time, and if it's our responsibility that means the Marines will have to stay."

Hazama had stepped in as he sat on the couch in of his office, hands clasped, face buried in them. "It is admirable you think this way Noelle, but it is not your responsibility here."

Pierce pointed at Hazama, he making a good point. "The man says it true, lieutenant colonel. It is no one man's responsibility."

"You've done all this, but you've never been in the mud, been in the dirt, and see the blood of your men wash over you as you are forced to shed more in their name. It is in that crucible that you understand how important orders are, above any historical connotation or misgivings you might have." Pierce had ran his hand through his greying hair as he took out a pack of smokes, motioning to Hazama. He had nodded as he had taken a stick from Pierce, the next two being given to the pilots before the final came out for Pierce himself. " _ **Orders are orders.**_ "

And so Hazama had turned his head away from the pilots and looked out the window as the two Rangers split off from the perimeter and went into the Corridor on their run. "You do not know what it's really like to kill, Lieutenant Colonel Noelle."

If that was so, Noelle had thought as he had looked at the nametag on his jumpsuit: Matthew " _ **BlueWay**_ " Noelle, then he had figured he was lucky in that regard to not see the guts the GIs had seen. He was a Marine, and yet, he had not seen war at its truest: perpetuated as the Roman legions had done with man to man combat, face to face, hand to hand, breaths tearing at their lungs. He had only seen it through the screens, through the glass of his machine, miles and miles up and away.

It wasn't the first time in his life that he had been posed that question: what right do you have to judge? To fight for the past?

Whatever it had meant, and whatever Noelle's answer had been, he never gave one or tried to understand it as he had slumped away and simply resumed his role.

"I guess I'm lucky then, eh?"

Pierce had gruffed in some sort of agreement before continuing, taking out his lighter. "Whenever you two are in the air, whenever you two are out on sortie, you are merely an extension of the Special Task Force's policy and tactics. What happened out there, regardless of me or Lieutenant General Hazama's personal feelings, was merely, officially, a matter of conflicting policy. Right lieutenant general?"

Hazama had dipped his cigarette in the flame Pierce offered before answer. "Affirmative, Colonel Pierce."

Noelle had grinned darkly, sarcastically as he remembered it was always the pilots that got into the weirder chapters of military history. Most namely he couldn't; forget the only time the Soviet Union and the United States had directly fought. A flight of P-38s over Yugoslavia during the dying days of the Second World War had been jumped by a group of Soviet fighters. What had been otherwise allies in the air had turned into nearly a dozen planes splashed because of miscommunication, and there was some merit to that anecdotal event here.

Perhaps, the lieutenant colonel had thought, history would remember him as the man who opened fired on a friendly for the sake of sanity.

Pierce had closed his eyes before nodding several times. "See? If we can get along, so can you." the observation was agreed with by the two pilots in murmurings, their sticks being lit by the lighter Pierce waved before them. "However just to get the point across that you two are equals, you're grounded for a week and have been docked a month's pay. You're under curfew until further notice and your privileges will be curtailed as well until the investigation regarding this brawl is finished."

The further punishment had taken a few seconds to register in the mind of the two squadron leaders, but when it did it gave them pause as Noelle's cigarette fell from his lips and Mikoda gasped, only to hack out from the smoke.

Pierce had smiled with Hazama as he thumbed to the door. "Now get out of my fucking sight."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor**_

* * *

Black complaining beforehand was really only making jest. He could've ran these five miles easy, especially with the exoskeleton around his leg.

Exoskeletons and muscle suits had been third party, private ventures originally during the first two decades of the twenty first century, designed for industrial workers and the physically impaired. Steel and concrete being lifted with mere fingers by those who wielded such tools, the work load dropped on them instead of the human body. A single man could lift a Prius fully with an industrial exoskeleton, widely in use across America's cities.

Of course the private ventures had commonly fallen under DARPA and retooled for military use upon their practicality being squared away by the civilian market.

The Rangers hadn't been able to fully appreciate the exoskeletons in battle, only the Tier 1 operators fully funded to be supplied such tools, but the muscle suits had been another story: originally designed for seniors to regain the movement of their youth in the civilian market. Still too expensive to fully field constantly to Blackburn's frustration.

Blackburn himself had worked throughout the night, even after coming back, the man not knowing when to let up when the chips were down and a war about to start.

The system Black had around his leg had extended to his thigh: two brace like steel rods hugging closely along the appendage being backed up with plates surrounding it. The motor being powered by the very motion Black needed the exoskeleton to do in his state.

It let him run, even with a healing, broken leg. In fact most of the pressure was put off his leg enough that he might've run faster with it in a normal condition.

He had been able to keep pace with Bannon however, and that was enough as she ran with headphones in.

A few Red Cross workers, the tracking collars and bracelets around their necks, had stepped out of their classrooms for a smoke break at just the right time to see the exercising Rangers pass them, they giving meek waves in their direction as they passed.

The doctors and the medical personnel had opted for the collars: the weight of the bracelets on their hands would've been a poor decision in operations.

One of the teachers had waved them down, the two stopping with heavy breaths, Bannon's own breathing causing a few of the medical personnel to look concerned. She in turned had waved them down as she sipped at the straw to her hydration pack.

"Need something?" Black had asked in Japanese, the teacher that waved them down had been from the Japanese chapter of the Red Cross.

"Hey, you're those Ranger guys, right?"

Black had patted the shoulder tab that had said so, five in total in descending order: Special Forces, Ranger, Airborne, and the tab that denoted that Hitman had come from the 4th Ranger Battalion. They were sewn onto their combat uniforms in an odd display of unit pride and in truth they were the only things differentiating them from the regular Marines. That was to say only in clothing and gear, the other difference between Rangers and Marines had been more… subtle, behavioral.

"Right," the teacher had figured out, the baseball cap on his head seemingly glued to his scalp with the heat inside the classroom. The classrooms and schoolhouses around had been of the old colonial types, perpetrated in the modern age by missionaries abroad in Africa. "I was wondering when that Nutty guy was gonna come back, the kids used to love him. He always made his own firecrackers for them to play with… he was a Ranger, right?"

The full bearded, olive skinned Californian who knew his way around all things boom and education had been Nutt, and Black had chuckled as he was called nutty. "Yeah, Don, I'm sorry to say but we're kinda stuck between a rock and a hard place currently. Tell the students we're sorry, I guess."

"Ah it's fine. Losing one teacher is bad enough already, nothing to say about how all of the volunteering Marines just packed up and left a few days ago…" the teacher motioned up at the helicopters. "Still, duty calls, right?"

Bannon had turned away as he let Black have his conversation, she knocking some mud off the sole of her boots onto the wooden walkway. "How goes teaching? Earthquake do anything to ya?"

"Most of us Red Cross personnel were at Arnus when it happened, so yeah, we're okay." he had stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking on the wooden walkway before he continued. "Teaching is great, participation is through the roof and we never really have any problems, but then again it doesn't really feel like teaching when everyone is suffering from the "yes-man" thing."

Black had raised his thick, dark brown eyebrow as he crossed his arms, throwing the rifle he had been running with over his back. "I always thought students agreeing with you would be a good thing."

The Red Cross teacher had tried to laugh at that, but he faltered quickly, his eyes dying inside. "Everyone is very eager, but generally they're so eager that it presents… problems." he had crossed his arms and looked at his watch, uneasy. "The earth being not flat, for example, this has caused some trouble enough that we've had to evict people."

"Ah, that old conundrum, do tell?"

"A few of the people we teach are already educated actually, either from the regular Imperial colleges and schools or from this city we keep hearing about up north: Rondel. Turns out the popular reigning theory of the world's shape is that it's flat, and those who think they're smarter than us think that we're wrong in this regard." the man grimaced. "So we showed them a picture of Earth from space, and then they argued how that was only the case in our world. Then one of our younger teachers just didn't drop it and, well, yeah. Things get heated."

Bannon had cleared her voice as she looked out, not even facing the men a she spoke. "You just have to be patient."

"Yeah well the JSDF is telling us to be through…" The teacher had looked back into the class room as one of his assistants had been teaching about safe sex. It was going to be more effective to teach the lessons of STDs and pregnancy on one end of the spectrum than the other, and everyone had known that some of the JSDF and the Marines had been fucking the locals. With the way the JSDF had allowed the troopers stationed at Arnus Hill to go out into the Corridor it had been a natural assumption.

Prostitution was explicitly illegal in the Corridor, however the local people had found that hard to fathom. The JSDF had taught them that their bodies were their own: not some master or lords property.

Because of that the mass thought was they could do with their bodies as they wished to the tune of two five fifty six cartridges for half an hour and a fifty cal' for a night.

Still, some love went beyond lust. One of the Rangers had reported from Wilbur that one of the tankers, the gunner of Warlord 1-2, had gotten rather chummy with one of Myui's maids in the same way Wilbur had gotten chummy with Yao.

Perhaps that had explained why that Marine in question had been carrying a medusa on his back as the Rangers passed them in their run.

That had been, in some opinions, more dangerous than a midnight lay.

Definitely more dangerous was giving the locals guns. Even if they were officially sanctioned police. The teacher had turned away as he saw a square of the Corridor start filling up with a crowd, disgusted.

Naturally the Rangers gravitated toward the unknown.

Crime in the Corridor had been something that the JSDF had written off as "non-inclusive" to the Task Force's mission. As such most of it was handed off to Rory and her MPs given the size of the Corridor and its growing thousand masses.

The JSDF didn't come here as nation builders. They would give the people of the Special Region the tools and the materials, but not much of anything else save a subtle, guiding hand of culture and commodities which had disregarded traditional Imperial values altogether.

They would not pray to the God of the Harvest while there had been the PXs there, providing food all around, all season, and of all varieties.

If religion had dictated morality, there was no more God for some who saw the newcomers from Arnus Hill provide for them, and as such, there were those who were tempted to make their life in ways that the gods would not approve.

That morning's edition of the "New Paper", as Bannon had read, reported three murders.

Apparently a loaf of PX bread was worth his own life as the man who did those three murderers was brought out into one of the many squares of the Corridor on top of a stage.

Kay had been particularly fond of the saying his brother and family often attributed to him: That he had been the right man in the wrong place at the wrong time, or a variation of that saying. Bannon had seen merit in that as she had held her fist up in a ball with her left hand, the pair slowing down at the outskirts of the crowd.

It was the distinctive silhouette of Rory's halberd above it all that made the certain aura of the crowd go from unknown to devious.

The banner above the stage had read in the Lingua Franca: "Every day at 3 Oh Clock!"

"Time." Bannon had asked for.

"Fifteen hundred on the dot ma'am."

"First time I've seen you Americans come watch something like this!" A child's voice had rung up from above them: a storefront walkway being where they had stopped. When they both looked up they saw the impossibly bright eyes of a child look down at them: face paint making it seem like his pupils had sunk into his face.

"What's going on?" Bannon had asked the boy.

"Every day at this time, the Militeee Police preform the punishments of the convicted in public it if is necessary… only one today though."

"It's pronounced military, and this crowd is a bit much for some public flogging, don't you think?"

"That's because it's an execution."

The concept of bread and circuses was still alive and well, even in modern times, albeit on a less gruesome scale. Here in the Corridor however the only bread and circuses they knew of was how it was originally. There would be no gladiator arena to spill blood here, only blind justice.

"Oh." Black's one word response had been all that he could give as all the pieces had fallen into place in the Rangers minds.

"You're a bit young to be watching this kid." Bannon had brought her rifle to her front. Just in case. Not like she was going to do anything about it.

"Yeah, but I was with you during the battle, so I can see anything now!"

Bannon had gotten a good look with her one eye at the child with his mention. Black short hair, olive skin, black face paint in arrow like markings going from his ears to his eyes. He dressed well by local standards, a cute, hopeful, rounded face that had yet to lose all of its baby fat. About Lelei's age to Bannon's indication.

"What's your name, kid?" she asked in the Lingua Franca.

"Roy Lucian! But my friends call me Ryolu!" Amazingly the child had gone into one of his pockets and flipped out a shotgun shell. It was the one used by Masterson to take down the horse about to maul Lelei and a downed child back then. "I remember you when you had two eyes! You beat up Malton's father when we had to move!"

" _ **Ryolu**_." Black had tested the name on his tongue as he had rough up the kids head. "Cute, your Mama's named Lucario, right…? Where is she anyway?"

"Buried on Roche Hill."

Black had no idea what he had been talking about, but Bannon had.

"I'm sorry." Another victim of the flame dragon before her and she felt compelled to apologize.

Ryolu shrugged. "One of my cousins took me in at Italica, but he died before the Men in Green and Tan came."

Black squinted his eyes at the kid. "You know you say all this with such a happy face kid."

"Because Rory usually hangs out with us after these things every day! And she's fun to hang out with!"

"Yeah? Well come hang out with us kid, I'm sure you'll be better off." Black had breathed out tiredly as Rory had been listing the three charges meticulously, unnoticing of the two Rangers who had hoisted themselves up on top of a sunroof of a store front with Ryolu.

If it was also a public execution then it had also been a religious event, given the fact Rory had still been an apostle and her god was still being worshipped. The rumors of Jesus Christ, Allah, Jehovah, Buddha and those that the Special Task Force had worshipped among their individuals had been a secret that the Marines and the JSDF had kept from the populace as best as they could, even if they wanted to worship the same gods.

For them to assume the faiths of their world would've been damning and wrong.

But still, some had leaked out, and Rory in these executions had made a point to make sure she reminded the people of the gods that mattered: the ones in their world, not the ones on the other side of the Gate.

So she put on a show, circling the stage with the raggedy looking man in the center. Poverty was not eliminated when the Special Task Force was brought in. The ceiling of wages was rasied, but still, those without a means of income beforehand had not caught up with the rise of economics in Italica and the Corridor.

By that consequence they were almost three times worse off.

The Red Cross couldn't help everyone so some were left to help themselves.

The mayor of Coda Village had returned, and to his displeasure he had found his village turned into a base for the STALMP: a jail and a prison for the Corridor. He was compensated fairly for the loss of his town more or less, but to think that an entire village could be transformed into a compound only for police work was both a sad fact: it being made out of necessity.

One of the Marine MPs had reported to a not-listening JSDF that the people were treated as if in a Russian gulag. The wave off had been that the JSDF had no control over the STALMP's local justice procedures, and that until it is, it would be offensive to even try to stop anything.

 _ **THE SLAUGHTER IS CLEAR**_

 _ **HIS DEATH IS CLEAR**_

 _ **THIS IS OUR WAR**_

 _ **PRAISE TO EMROY**_

The crowd chanting for Rory's God had appeased her as she spun both her halberd and revolver like Masterson, the gun actually going off into the sky at multiple instances to the alarm of any soldier in earshot.

This had only made that blood lusting crowd more eager to see blood rightfully spilled.

The man about to be slaughtered had seemed resigned to his fate, even behind his dirty and bloodied face, staring down at the wood where he had kneeled: his last place on the world before he was sent away.

Unbeknownst to anyone he had refused to look at his wife and young daughter in the crowds, crying for him.

"His name has been burned from the records! His possessions destroyed! The name of his family changed! He will not be remembered as anything, mercifully!"

Perhaps Val Jean's epic story of revolution and redemption wouldn't have happened in this world if Rory had been Javert, and that had been the case here.

"Has this man lived his life to the fullest?!" Rory had asked the crowd.

" _ **No!**_ "

"Then he shall die knowing that he has failed Emroy! And thus! I shall send him to Hardy!"

Rory still had a desire to fulfil and a duty to do.

The murderer's neck felt the back of Rory's left arm as she walked behind him, her body twisting around as her left hand grabbed onto his right shoulder, the right one going to the holster underneath her dress.

Officially, the judicial system was still in the hands of the local government system, and that had meant Myui and Italica. However the STALMP were technically still a local force with advising from the Special Task Force, but not under direct control. If anything, the local MPs were under Rory's control, and she had been willing to go along with the task force in the meanwhile. But the MPs were loyal to Rory, to an apostle, above the task force.

So anything they did it was for their land, their order. Not whatever America or Japan had wanted.

But America never cared anymore, which was why the American personnel who bore witness to the act did not even flinch when the muzzle of Rory's revolver jammed itself into the back of the man's head

The yelp, the screech, the unable to look-away-in-time gazes of the JSDF personnel had made it seem like they were the ones who had been shot as the man's face split in two before tumbling into the wood of the platform.

The crowd had cried justice.

Bannon and Black, they hadn't seen firsthand what ISIS had done to its American prisoners as the Coalition of the Damned tore at the caliphate's lungs, however they understood more the brutality than the Japanese because it had happened to their fellow countrymen.

They didn't flinch, didn't feel anything as a man was killed.

They weren't surprised at the nature of the execution, however there was another part of it:

Once, long ago, there had been an American War in Vietnam.

In that war there had been a police force acting on behalf of America, comprised of the local inhabitants, and after an infamous chain of battles during the lunar new year a plain clothed belligerent of that police force (and by extension America) was captured and brought to the middle of the street before that police force's commander.

With a revolver, with the entire world watching, that police chief had executed that belligerent in broad daylight.

Now in the Special Region, the executioners had been Japanese sponsored, and if hadn't been for the Americans, the world wouldn't have known that this had happened at all.

A JSDF grunt had cried out at Rory. "What are you doing?!"

An officer had been there to answer as Rory had cocked back the hammer again to the next condemned. "This is an internal affair of the people. Orders are not to interfere." and as he had explained it to the outraged grunt he had seen the two Americans look at them.

Judgement, regret, apathy. Whatever was written on their faces they didn't stick around to verbalize it to anyone, turning away into the crowds of the Corridor and to let the people be with their public displays of justice, a child following them.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Italica – Formar Keep**_

* * *

They came back to the waking world one by one: Kurokawa, Pops, Furuta, Tomita, Kurata, they all had stumbled into the dining hall with bags under their eyes and cruel fate in their shadows. The weight of the world they had woken up in had brought them to a slump.

All the Rangers could do was be kind. All of them were friends at this point, comrades, special acquaintances in a special region.

They all gave salute to Lieutenant Itami as he creakily came in, Emerson rising and putting out his e-cig, having taken Masterson's seat.

"Avenger." Emerson's greeting to Itami had been with his codename.

"Demon Lord." Itami had weakly responded with Emerson's own moniker.

"Oh my god I have never felt that sore ever since Ranger training." Emerson had helped Itami into a chair, the members of RCT3 that were there taking their own seats at the table, the maids being summoned by some of Hitman and asked to deliver breakfast to the famished GSDF.

Doc had already been there with water for them all. "Mari, you should understand. Water. All of you."

Kurata had raised the whiskey glass that it had been in at Doc's counterpart in RCT3. "If only you were this nice Kurokawa, eh?"

" _Fuck off._ " The uncharacteristically hard words from Kurokawa shot at a comrade had made several of the people on the table stumble. There had been a twinge in her eye that hadn't been there before, something that made her hide her eyes as she played with her dark locks of hair, almost having outgrown Bannon's current hair length now.

She had not taken her experience in the Capital kindly. She had not enjoyed seeing Itami beat a prince half to death, nor did she enjoy seeing Emerson lead his Rangers to kill so many at the foot of an emperor. She thought she could see a glimmer of hope, of sanity, in that throne room as she attended to Noriko. She saw none however, so she would give none as she held her face in one of her hands and looked away from them all.

Kurata at least had gotten the point as he downed his glass of water and let the medic be with her own thoughts.

They all dealt with failure differently, but the Japanese conception of war, of conflict and bloodshed, had been tested again and again ever since they were here. That conception had withered away with all who held it.

Pops had been idly looking at the picture of his daughter and her fiancé, Furuta and Tomita silent as they looked at their own reflections on the table's sheen in between the American guns. Kurata had been looking across the maids as they shuffled in with serving trays of breakfast cereal and fruit for the GSDF, he immediately standing up once he had seen Persia and going off his own way with her.

None of them really spoke until they had started eating quietly.

"So this is what an American War feels like, eh?" Itami had said as he spooned in a mouthful of some undiscernible cereal. He couldn't taste anything out of fatigue, he just needed to eat, his vision gazing out at the Marine Black Hawks and the JSDF Hueys going out.

"Don't ask me." Emerson had responded, "I haven't been out there yet. Doubt they'd let us."

"Would you want to be out there?"

Emerson had pursed his lips as he shrugged. "Well if there's people to save, then yes, but according to the radio…" he waved his hand in the general direction of the RTO the man listening over his set like some diligent doomsday prepper. "Besides. I might not have wanted to be a soldier, I thought I could get away lucky, but I am now, and I have a duty."

They were hesitant to make conversation at all. It was just too tiring to do so, too stressful, but the two officers had to for example. They were leaders of their group, the people that were supposed to stay calm, to stay level headed, to stay who they were in every scenario.

They had a role to play and people to be.

"I-" Itami had weakly put down his bowl of cereal. "I don't know if I could."

Emerson had gruffed as he remembered Ginza and how he had just taken off into action. "That's always the doubt until they give you orders, you know."

"Huh?"

"People tell me to do things, and I do them. I just thought that was always the case with people… I remember, back during that thing I told you about during college, when they told me to testify against that _**motherfucker**_ -" for a second Emerson's tone of voice had changed into that same dispassionate rage that Kurokawa had spoken with earlier, and it had ground through his teeth as he caught himself, returning to his story as his Rangers all turned and looked at him for a fleeting moment. "I mean…when they told me to testify against Professor Jie, I didn't know how to testify, but I went up there and did what was expected of me. Syracuse then gave me a settlement and a scholarship. When my Ranger trainer told me to assault a mock position for the first time, I didn't know how to, but I did it anyway, and it turned out okay because that was the first time I ever pointed a gun at someone and pulled the trigger. I mean, they were training rifles but…"

"Point is you never really know what you're capable of until you actually do it?" Itami had finished Emerson's moral for him before he went too deep. He nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I get that. Didn't know I could make it in the military until I was in."

"Hell, maybe you're a great artist like Risa, you just don't know it."

"Oh I wouldn't say that, I'm more of the consumer as opposed to the creator."

"You ever try?"

"Well… no. You saying I should?"

"One day… one day," he had taken a cigar out with a lighter before putting it between his lips, "This will all be behind us. I'll be a politician in Washington. Cam will be back in Texas as a farm owner. Bannon will probably be selling Masterson his own land, and you? All of you?" Emerson had opened up, but only one man had answered.

"Hopefully retired." Pops had said through a cloth left for a napkin. "Retired and a grandfather."

Furuta had nodded at the sergeant major. "I don't know, operating a restaurant here is a very enticing deal for me."

Emerson's face had twitched at the notion of the Japanese staying. He had done some studying on Arnus Hill itself during his time in the Imperial Libraries, the note he had sent back to Pierce regarding the nature of the Gate had been top secret.

Its opening had not been an anomaly.

It closing would not be an anomaly.

But all he did was nod at another man who lost his dream in the fires of Ginza. He ran his hand through spiky, flat top hair, considering it fully.

"You're an awesome cook, you know that private? The Imperial Royal family sends their regards."

"Do they?"

Emerson had nodded. "Yeah, especially those kebab-meat thingies."

"You think Pina's alright?" Itami had posed a question which Emerson had been avoiding mentally.

"She's a strong woman," he told himself. "She can handle herself."

* * *

No one stopped Tomita from leaving the Fromar Keep. That was my observation as the man had made to move out and take a horse himself further down the Corridor.

The Rose Order often liked to gossip in front of my face, if only because they had assumed my knowledge of the lingua franca was lacking. It was because of that gossiping that I knew that Tomita and Bozes had something extracurricular going on.

It was because of that I had taken his shoulder and pleaded with him to find them and make sure they didn't leave the Corridor and head back to the Capital. I told myself Pina was alright, but ignorance was bliss.

He had agreed without question, but it didn't matter. It was an order. If Hamilton had been so eager to fight me upon spilling Imperial blood I would not take the risk with Bozes and her company of knights that kept here with her. I still felt her scar on my face and the anger she used to lash out against me.

I pocketed my hands as I saw the doors shut on him, RCT3 and Hitman intermingling over gear and idle conversation throughout the dining room. Itami had come up behind me and I remember something I needed to tell him, something I told all of my Rangers for those that they loved.

He needed to call home.

Kurata had been the luckiest dog here I had thought with how he and Persia just seemed to connect so well. It was love brewing if I had any idea what it was: on how he had laid his head on her lap as her tail had flicked content, the two talking of anything and everything and how they seemed to calm near each other.

Kurata had been one of those that had gone insane at Italica: I remember out of the corner of my eye I had seen him have the rifle buck out of his hand and fall on his ass as he realized what he was doing, finally. He had seen a wave that he could not stop without sacrificing a piece of himself and, if he had died, he would've been wholer than most of us.

There was another maid, a young Medusa-like woman whom the lead maid, an older woman with grey in her hair and a tall face, had suspected had been going out with a Marine. More specifically one of the tankers.

Love was such a thing that deserved to be cherished. Not like I would know what it meant.

* * *

"Call Risa, Yoji."

Itami chuckled he shook his shoulder. "I was about to tell you to call your mother."

The captain had figured, to be fair to him, Emerson wouldn't have without him reminding. "I will, when the time is right."

When they weren't under house arrest, when the Marine helicopters weren't going out to fight an unseen war, when he knew Pina was okay, when he knew he had not damned the world. That when Emerson had thought he would call his mother next.

"Hmm, just be sure to. You have a mother you can actually connect to, Kay, that's precious."

"You still have a mother, Youji." he winced.

"Do I?"

Emerson had shook his head as he rose from his seat, taking Itami by the shoulder and leading him out to a balcony connected to the dining room.

"I told ya man, next time we have time off on the other side, I'm taking you and Risa to the States to meet my family with Cam and Lisa. You gotta at least introduce me to your Mom, aight?"

The younger man knew about the elder Itami, the only surviving elder Itami, that is.

The one before him had soured in his face as he simply looked out at the Corridor and Italica, still rebuilding, but looking better every time he had looked outside. "The staff at the ward will tell me when she's ready to see me."

Emerson choked up at that. " _Youji._ " it was pleading and in English. The man who grew up in hard times from the Bronx had loved his mother and father. He was hard pressed to believe that were people that hadn't loved their own parents. "Please, visit your mother. Tell her that you love her. She needs that. All mothers do."

Itami had gulped as he readied his voice. "I do love her, Kay." he spoke it in English. "By god, I love her."

"If you love her, then don't worry about what the staff there say. Go there because she's there and you're ready, not because you're requested."

It took a few seconds of silence and fresh air for Itami to fully process the thoughts in his own native tongue, leaning on the stone railing, smiling as he gradually placed his own hand on Kay's shoulder. He understood what he meant, truly.

"Are you ready to call your mother?"

The question turned onto Emerson had let the pleading man suddenly suck himself back in. Emerson wasn't the lying type, his knee jerk answers always ones that had been, admirably, truthful, if not harmful. _**"No."**_

"…Let me call her then."

"…What?"

Itami had risen his own phone already. He already did have the number of Emerson's family, just in case. Emerson had risen and reached out to stop him but he had been too late, the phone was dialed.

"Is this Mrs. Emerson?" Itami had looked right at her son as he awaited a response. "Yes, this is Youji. Sorry for calling so late."

Emerson couldn't hear anything but a rumble behind the earpiece as Itami's ear was held against it, the man practicing his English.

"Yes, Kristian is just fine Mrs. Emerson, he's just tried right now. I just wanted to call and let you know everything's good."

Emerson had looked down at the ground and at his boots, the stains of battles fought still there, just barely. Burns and dents and blood born fades.

"Yeah, he's a little roughed up, a few marks here and there, but nothing a little touch up can get rid of… yes ma'am, he's still very handsome." A few of the maids had giggled as they looked away at the two officers, the older man talking into the cell phone.

In response the man had hurriedly dialed Risa's number.

"Yo Risa, it's Kay… yes. No, nothing bad has happened, but Itami told me to tell you in order to pay alimony next month he's volunteered to be featured in the next uh, comic, you're gonna be drawing."

"Uhm- yes Mrs. Emerson, Kay would like to have a care package of more hand lotion… surely you must know how that is from raising two boys."

"Yeah, Youji wanted you to use your old private photos of him as references when you draw the next issue of the Cowboy doujin sequel, you know the one where you drew Masterson in? Yes Youji's totally cool with it."

"Mrs. Emerson if you could also like, add maybe, some condoms in that care package, your son has been a popular choice of many of the WALKING DOGS that we've become friends with. He said to me that he can't GET ENOUGH of them."

"Oh no, he'd loved it if you drew him getting RAILED UP THE ASS BY MASTERSON, YOUJI IS TOTALLY A BOTTOM IN A RELATIONSHIP."

"OH YOU'D LIKE TO SEE THAT HUH?!"

" _ **Try me**_." Emerson hadn't been entirely a romantic, but college had been an exciting time for him in that regard. The man had confirmed his bisexuality in the heat of the moment he had fondly remembered. That moment being beneath the sheets in a dorm during a particularly tense finals week.

To say that he hadn't known how to flirt was an outright lie then, and to do so with Itami had both caught the Japanese man off guard and cleared the air enough for Emerson to quickly snatch Itami's phone and call from his hand, only to exchange it with Risa's.

Itami hadn't known why he blushed at it, but he had turned away as Kay did and resumed the call and tried to reel back in Kay's damages.

"Hey Mom." Kay had softly said, calming his voice down as he heard the infectious laughter of his mother behind the phone.

"Didn't want your boyfriend to talking to his soon mother-in-law?"

Emerson had shook his head, Itami simply laughing it off as he had seen Emerson's predictment. "Ugh, quit it Mom."

"Oh I kid you, my baby, how are you?"

The most common lie in the world, and indeed the first lie for many to their parents, had been the same one Emerson had told his mother now as a grown man:

 _"I'm fine."_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 54**_

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor – Arnus Hill Community Mess Hall**_

* * *

Getting Hitman out of the Keep and at a dinner with RCT3 had been more than enough for them to put on smiles and cheers to Lieutenant Yanagida.

Sans the Men in Black who may or may not have been there at all, here, on the shadow of where the original refugees had their first meal, the deadliest infantry of the Special Task Force had congregated again near the original refugee housing of the Corridor for another meal.

For all of Kuribayashi's pomp, there had been some truth in her claims to being a SOG in all but name at that point. All of RCT3 had the special privilege of operating and training with the Rangers, and that had meant something both officially, but also unofficially.

RCT3 had been a little better at English because of it, but the main gains for them had just been their capabilities. They were able to keep up with the Rangers in the drills they did in the training area underneath the Keep.

Emerson hadn't been the only one teaching in the Special Region.

If Emerson, in all frankness, had honed his cruelty by Major Walker's training, then Bannon had inherited his skill for leadership and drilling. Even Tomita, being the biggest man from RCT3, had been hard pressed to keep up with just even Loke, the smallest of Hitman.

Kurokawa even had been turned into an operator on some measure.

The two units had amalgamated over four long picnic tables underneath the outdoor covering of the mess hall, and green had blended with tan as the mugs went up and they spoke in unison:

 _"Thanks for treating us, First Lieutenant Yanagida! Lieutenant Commander Blackburn!"_

The JSDF officer in question could only grimace with a straight face as Itami and Emerson gave their cheeky grins. Delilah had poked on one the shoulders of RCT3, she was hosting the Mess Hall tonight, asking how many people in total.

The other had been Blackburn, and he had been a bit better off, if not a little antsy. He had left a lot of his Seabees back at Arnus, and granted a JSDF major with RCT1 had been now posted there at the embassy, it was still a precarious situation to have Special Task Force personnel within the Capital. It reminded a little too much of himself and the rag tag band of South Korea soldiers and Marines that he had taken to the sewers with during the fall of Seoul. It was because of that his pits had been slightly damp and had stained his white office shirt he defiantly wore despite the military he was deployed with. His dog tags had been off of his neck and instead been rolling in between his knuckles.

"Thirty three people."

Thankfully for Yanagida, he could've written this off as a business expense. Blackburn had felt for the man in that regard, Rangers were expensive to outfit, but it was worth it. They had been combat unit that had seen the most fighting within the Special Region at that point and, asides from a few odd reacquisition notices for Kalashnikov magazines in 5.56 and another drum mag for a Finnish sub machine gun, they were within the lines as far as he knew.

They rented the square off, and the refugees had fondly remembered the Men in Green and the Men in Tan well enough for privacy to be given (and some tribute to be given and awkwardly given back).

"Before we get started I'd like to make an announcement, I won't be staying long." Blackburn had lit Emerson's cigar for him as he tossed the cigarettes on the table for all. "As of right now the Ranger platoon deployed with the Special Task Force, callsign: Hitman, is now reinstated for operational deployment. You are now officially cleared for deployment underneath the purview of Admiral Lincoln, current commander of Joint Special Operations Command."

It was almost as if it was the days after Ginza again, when the Japanese Prime Minister declared that Japan would be going into the Gate. It was with that declaration that the Rangers had exploded in excitement: that they would be finally, for most, going to war.

But there was no explosion of willingness this time, only the quiet nods and affirmatives that suddenly sobered all the Rangers and made them cold.

"Do we have orders, Lieutenant Commander Blackburn?" Emerson had asked as he took the first blow from his brown stub.

Blackburn shook his head. "Not immediately. In the coming days you'll have your first ops lined up: places just outside the Special Task Force's AO and the more… fantastical sites that we had some of the search parties just only frisk. You'll be doing the same work the RCTs and the Marine fireteams are doing, but just, you know, special shit."

"So that's you telling us to get shit faced tonight?"

"I'm just saying that whatever might happen tonight, you probably won't regret it tomorrow because of a deployment."

"Same thing! Delilah! Shots!" The Ranger had slammed his fist down for them all, and then Rangers had finally celebrated. RCT3 however had waited for the word of the Japanese officer.

"For all intents and purposes, I can say roughly the same for RCT3. You have deployment orders back to the Capital, however, I have something separate to say to Lieutenant Itami."

"Hold it Tony." Emerson had stopped one of Masterson's Rangers from blasting back the first shot as Delilah poured, his thumb twisting up as all the Rangers had snapped up straight at attention to salute.

Blackburn had tilted is head in some pride and appreciation.

"Is that all, Lieutenant Commander Blackburn?" Emerson said, his head unmoving as each of the Rangers stood as statues. Kuribayashi gleamed at them, admired how even the most eager to get drunk had thrown every emotion off their face and felt nothing.

Blackburn had patted Yanagida's shoulder as he had thumbed out Japanese Yen to him. He would be paying after he had saluted. "Yes, that's all Hitman. At ease. I'll be going now."

The Hitman had still been standing even as they lowered their hands. Blackburn really wasn't a bad man they had figured at that point. Younger than some of them even: just the right man in the wrong place at the right time. Still, they wouldn't let him know that as he shifted off into the night, looking at Yanagida for one last time before moving on.

* * *

Yanagida had motioned for Itami to come to the end of the table to sit with him: putting RCT3 between him and the Rangers. Reluctantly, he did.

"I'm sure you've heard from our American friends, perhaps that one eye'd one or the British tanker, about a special visitor to Arnus recently."

Itami raised his eyebrow as he looked into his mug for a second to confirm that it had been alcohol, taking a cursory sip as Yanagida went on.

"They came with a request that should pique your interest."

"Out with it."

Yanagida had damned the file that they had on Itami. He had been nothing like what it said in the text about his passiveness. "They wanted us to slay a dragon. More specifically, according to the vocal testimony, she wanted us to slay the Flame Dragon in the Elbe Fiefdom your team encountered earlier during our intervention here."

"Impossible." Was his knee jerk reaction to that request. If all the ammo RCT3 had carried with Hitman couldn't do it in, as mangled as it had made it, he doubted a simple request to him to slay it, as he was predicting, would do it.

There had been a TV set up and an appropriate karaoke kit. Tonight's self-entertainment had been kicked off by Emerson and Corporal Hauvsbaum, another New York native, singing an ode to America's city to the delight of Delilah and the locals who were within earshot. Naturally, being the singing types, most of Hitman had followed along as Delilah poured shots and cheered.

* * *

 ** _Now Playing:_**

 ** _Frank Sinatra – Theme From New York, New York_**

 ** _As sung by Hitman Squad_**

* * *

 _ **I want to wake up in a city**_

 _ **That doesn't sleep**_

 _ **And find I'm king of the hill**_

 _ **Top of the heap**_

"That beast has less tactical advantage than a Russian BMP-T or a _Chankoro_ tank at this point. I think you can do it alone".

Harris had shoved his face into the cleavage of one of the waitresses as the first shots were taken back, food and drink being shoved down the Rangers throats like animals as RCT3 simply reveled in the stereotypical American habits of eating.

Master Sergeant Nishinia had disapproved as he looked away and simply sipped at his beer, Masterson playfully elbowing the man's side as he somewhat agreed.

The derogatory term for the Chinese had fallen from Yanagida's lips, making Itami remember who he was talking to. Yanagida hadn't exactly enjoyed Blackburn's company seeing as the man had been Chinese.

Sure, Itami had been proud to be Japanese and he would've supported his nation, die for his nation, if it was warranted, but Yanagida wanted more.

 _ **I want to wake up in a city**_

 _ **That never sleeps**_

 _ **And find I'm a number one**_

 _ **Top of the list**_

 _ **King of the hill**_

 _ **A number one**_

"You know this for sure?"

"RCT3 and your American friends left it in such a condition. I doubt it would've healed in a month." Itami had looked away, admitting the man had a point.

"I feel sorry for whoever this person is, but this falls beyond the responsibilities of my team." His own orders were to do nothing. He didn't want to be a hypocrite as the music tuned out and the world closed in on him and this conversation he was having. "Besides, I heard the general turned her down, and that's that."

"Okay then," Yanagida had lit his cigarette as he got the official excuse ready. "You're a team leader of a Recon group scouting for both prisoners and material, if you were to go down there on a resource research mission and somehow run into a credible threat you have to take on…"

"Tomayto, tohmahto." Itami had learned a few odd sayings from Masterson during his time with him, and this had been one of them to Yanagida's observation.

 _ **These little town blues**_

 _ **Are melting away**_

 _ **I'll make a brand new start of it**_

 _ **In old New York**_

"Take a few LAMs and a Humvee, go out there, shoot at its disabled form, let it bleed out, come back and report the kill. That's all there is to it for you."

"You're making it sound easy because you've never met it!"

"I'm making it sound easy because _**you have**_ met it, and you have survived, and you did nearly beat it within an inch of its life with a barebones motorized recon team. You can't because you say so, you won't because you're lazy, and you'll squander Japan's opportunity due to your laziness lieutenant."

 _ **And if I can make it there**_

 _ **I'm gonna make it anywhere**_

 _ **It's up to you**_

 _ **New York, New York, New York**_

"Don't be ignorant Itami." Yanagida had curled his fingers along the table top. "You know your nation would be in debt to you, seeing as you would be a pathfinder into the Elbe Kingdom. We know there's resources down there. _**Oil.**_ "

"Why would I care about oil?" Itami knew why, he just posed the question.

"When was the last time you spent less than a thousand Yen for a liter?"

"Fuck you." the answer had been because it was as Itami expected of Yanagida. It was the same answer-posed-as-a-question that many thought spurred America to go into the Middle East in the first place.

He knew what game Yanagida was playing.

"Oh come now Ita-"

Itami had leaned in, he didn't want to attract any attention but some of Hitman and RCT3 noticed. " _No, seriously,_ _ **fuck you**_ _."_ He stood up to lean in even more to a barely unthreatened Yanagida. "What do you think we are to you? Just objects you can throw around for the sake of completing objectives? You don't care if we die or not, do you? Just as long as we fulfill some mission or interest that makes our lives worth it, right?"

All Yanagida could do was keep a smile. "You mistake me for an American, Itami."

"Don't insult them." he almost whispered into Yanagida. "You don't know what it means to be an American."

"And you do?" Itami had paused as Yanagida leaned in turn. "Like so many others you claim to see America as good while tolerating their indiscretions happening right in front of your face just because they are nice to you. You know they're stopping us from freeing all those slaves we're finding, right?"

"A necessary decision to keep the peace."

"And not killing a marauding dragon isn't? Lieutenant Itami, you are as lazy as any American and just as prone to inaction. At least we Japanese recognize an injustice and will do something about it while also making moves to benefit the world at large: taping into this world's resources to breathe new life in ours." Yanagida had stood up, finished, his point made. "And if you don't do it for the good of Japan, for the good of that one person who came to us for help, _**I'll find someone who will**_."

Shino hadn't been looking as she enjoyed her meal and the show as she tried to sing in English with Hitman, but Yanagida had looked directly at her, Itami following his gaze and freezing as he realized that she could've been the alternative in some way. The Rangers and RCT3 cheered as the song finished up, Emerson on his knees basically screaming out the words, holding his aviators out to the crowd as if it was a hat.

He out of anyone there needed to enjoy himself more.

Ironically he hadn't loved New York City as much as the song had suggested.

"Oh yeah, Itami, I'd go check up on Chuka if I were you." he had put back on his officer's cap as the dinner group had seen him rise. "Enjoy your dinner, Rangers, RCT3." The JSDF lieutenant had gone off without waiting for salute, into the night, into the crowds of the late night Corridor. Blackburn's organization had just recently, with the destruction caused by the earthquake, yielded the placement of ground lines for electricity.

It had lit up the night with the placement of street lamps that doubled as wind farms.

The crowds had been silent as they looked up and saw electricity at work in its most admirable form, the lessons on electricity by those who dared unable to be fully comprehended in all factors but visual. The Special Task Force had harnessed light itself, and that was a measure that only gods had.

Yanagida's request to the rest of RCT3 and Hitman had been heeded, but all Itami had done was sit there in silence after he sat back down, rubbing his chin as the night turned to midnight, and the party go on without him. The lyrics had hung over his head however, even as the next song was played and Masterson had been trying to swoon Bannon into a duet with him.

 _"It's up to you, New York, New York…_ _ **It's up to you**_ _…"_

* * *

Most of Emerson's men and RCT3 had taken a horse or a "taxi" cart back to Italica by the time Itami had come out of his internal thought. By the time he had only my sergeants had remained with him as usual, bringing over the last of their mugs. Masterson and Bannon had been drinking rather heavily and one had been faring better than the other: Bannon basically collapsing onto the seat as Masterson held her shoulders.

Emerson himself had been casually drinking, but he had trained his tolerance with Itami.

"You alright?" Emerson had found Itami still sitting frozen at the end of the table, most everyone too scared to actually break the man's reverie as his food turned cold with his skin. Hitman's leads taking a seat across from him on the wooden table as Delilah picked up the used dishes and mugs.

"What did Kiss Ass say to ya Itami?" Masterson had spoken up first.

Itami was slow to respond, he looking up, hand cupped over his mouth as he used his arms to push the fried duck and the cold soups away with the bread.

"The flame dragon. Wanted us, or rather, me, to finish the job."

"Oh yeah, good ole Red." Masterson continued.

"Red?" Itami wasn't familiar with the term.

"It's what Ryolu and some of the other kid refugees who were with us are calling that thing. I figure that name fits." Masterson had nothing short of a legendary tolerance for alcohol, enough so that he had been the only one of the two sergeants talking as Bannon had simply kept her head down on the table as if she was in a elementary timeout. She had a tongue for Jack Daniels that she only discovered within the Special Region.

"How do you guys get Jack on this side of the Corridor anyway?" Itami had asked as he continued to sip at his own, lukewarm mug.

Emerson and Masterson had shared a knowing chuckle as Bannon rolled her forehead on the table as if laughing without sound. "We've got a friend in logistics, and Blackburn looks the other way for us."

"Right, Blackburn," Itami had seen the man aside talking to Delilah and a few other of the maids, probably tantalizing over payment or some other diplomatic dinner he had been putting together. Word from the top down that Japan would be letting military representatives from NATO and the EU in in due time, and given Blackburn's diplomatic stripes he was on deck to handle it when it happened. "He offered me a favor or two, too. Back in Akusho."

"Cash in yet?" Emerson asked unbelieving.

"Well, uhrm, you see. There was a Chinese manga I saw before we came here and, well, downloaded and hoped one of us knew how to translate and, well…" Typical Itami.

"Oh, and here I was thinking you'd get a CorridorCon going." Masterson had joked.

"Eh, later."

Bannon's throat had started gurgling as the three men sat in silence, Masterson immediately knowing what it was enough to basically pick her up and put her over a trash can.

"Reminds me of you back a few months ago." Itami had pointed out, Emerson ruefully ignoring the comment as he looked over to his pair of sergeants over the trashcan, Masterson mercifully rubbing circles into Bannon's back as she let the sickness out of her.

"Lisa grew up in a rather strict household growing up, and she really didn't drink when she was a drifter."

"Really?" Itami and Masterson had talked as friends, perhaps not to the closeness he and Emerson had, but he had been there at Ginza all the same and they were bound together because of it. He had known the cowboy better than he had known the hard woman that had been Bannon. "Couldn't have been that hard."

"I beg to differ." Emerson had finished off her drink. "But then again you wouldn't know, she's not too welcoming of a person… Hey! Bannon! Get some water and take a walk!"

All she could do was weakly raise a thumbs up as her head was pretty much in the garbage can at that point, Masterson still holding her shoulders.

"I still find it amazing they knew each other back before they joined up."

"Coincidences don't surprise me anymore, but for them? I'm glad."

Itami had got a cigarette from his picket as he pointed it at the two of them. "Sounds like you've made lifelong friends with them."

Emerson had blushed just a bit, running his thumbs across the lip of his mug as he considered what Itami had said. "It's nice to have friends." he rose his drink. "Cheers?"

"Cheers."

As the conversation on couples continued after the two mugs had clinked, a portion being hit back. "You mentioned to Burger King," Shino's nickname had persisted, and she had worn that badge with honor now. "that you knew a few friends in your SOG corps enough to offer her off?"

Itami was dismissive. He wasn't really serious in the first place. "Eh, I heard her chatting about how she's gonna take Masterson."

Emerson had sobered by a fraction as he heard that. "Might be a problem."

As men do they talk about the passes, the encounters, of a sultry variety. Even Masterson had his in the Special Region, but he wasn't proud of it. He hadn't done anything with Lisa as he talked with Emerson about said subject, he had assured Emerson of that and the captain believed him, but Shino had been another story.

Shino had been, to the casual observer, physically alluring. Her ability to bust someone's face open had been as prominent as her bust and her pretty face as Black had once commented earlier on, however she had known those facts. She sought someone worthy of her and her ego.

She had wanted to look for SOGs through Itami, however she had found it through Emerson in the form of Masterson, and Kay would admit he could see what Shino probably saw in Masterson. He was a kind man, a moral man of homely attitude and frankness underneath a blonde, chiseled form of a cowboy turned Ranger.

Yet he had fought the same as her in some way and she had craved that.

A few times Shino would pass Masterson by, lean in a little more forward than she should've, passed by, chest first in the range against him, volunteer to spar with him more than he was comfortable with. He hadn't returned any the advances, but he knew what she was doing.

He read it as she intended and instead of turning him on, it scared him.

"Are you seriously okay with letting Bannon and Masterson work together?" Itami had posed the question Emerson had asked himself every time he saw the two together.

"I told you back in the sauna when we first came here, as long as Masterson isn't jumping in the way of arrows or some shit for her without proper cause, I'm not seeing anything."

"But you know they're in love, right?"

The mugs had been replaced by cans that late, Coors again on their lips. Emerson had cringed at that word. Monochrome mages flashed by his mind:

A dark elf making love to a British man in the woods, Myui's medusa maid being held in the arms of Marine tanker as they made out underneath starlight, Bannon and Masterson's subtle, much more pure, maneuvers with each other: a magazine given to each other in the middle of a firefight, the slight touch of fingers in private, quiet moments in between duty and hushed conversations of the future and past and who they once were and will be. Tomita and Bozes comforting each other in the night after the horrors they witnessed. Faceless Marines and JSDF finding peace and affection of fairy tale love in a fairy tale land.

"Love." Emerson said that word with a growl. "This is a hell of a place for love to come about… Lisa and Cam, they didn't find love here."

"Well, you know what they say. Even love can bloom on the battlefield."

"Tsk." Emerson had looked away, throwing his empty can at the trash can Bannon had puked in an hour ago. It landed. "The day I find love out on the battlefield is the day I stop dreaming of being a politician and instead take up being a god damned flag officer."

"You'll be good either way."

* * *

A radio had been going on as Itami and I chatted about whatever.

"Kurdish terrorists today attacked the Turkish Embassy in Iran. Among the weapons found among the slain attackers were American and German issued weapons provided by those countries during the war on ISIS several years ago. Kurdish authorities condemn the attack amid rampant allegations by the International Community against the Kurdish state of directly funding and supplying this new wave of Kurd terrorism in the newly reformed Iraq and Iran."

"So tell me Senator Emerson." Itami played with my aspirations. "What do you think about that?" he pointed at the radio, but more meaningfully, the subject it had been talking about. I was quick to answer.

"The Kurds are the lesser of two evils of this day and age… back in the 80s it was the Mujahedeen and Bin Laden, now it's the Kurdish people. I'm sure I'll eventually make it to Iraqi Kurdistan myself in a few years, if I'm still here."

"America going in again?"

I had sipped back the last of my can as Delilah walked over and took it without word, uttering his words as dazed out on her tail, walking away. "What else is new?"

I would blame it on the drinks as I realized she had turned around and caught me where my sight was, winking at me as I snapped my vision away, Itami soaking up my embarrassment.

Delilah had appeared at the end of the table where we had sat, a tray of three shot glasses already filled with a red liquid and an unmarked bottle. Final drinks of the night were on her for my evident interest, ruffling the black curls on my head.

"Oh, you two have had it rough recently, huh?"

"I suppose we have Delilah." Itami played for pity. I didn't say anything but simply nod as she kept her fingers on my head, I somewhat leaning into it.

"Then I suppose this last treat for you tonight will be on me." the tray in her other hand had found itself on the table, three shot glasses already filled. Itami didn't look as he took a glass without question, holding it up to his lips.

"What is it?"

"A drink from my homeland." she barely finished the sentence as we all took it back, I realizing too late what it was. I knew who Delilah was. There was no way that she couldn't have been. But I didn't mind with the drink.

"This drink… it's red?" Itami's pondering aloud hadn't stopped him from taking the shot and finishing, Delilah chuckling rather evilly as we both did, she licking the rest of it seductively off the top of her lip before bearing her teeth.

 _ **"I MIXED IT IN THE BLOOD OF AN ENEMY I KILLED."**_

Huh, didn't taste like it.

Itami had spat his out on the ground as she chuckled at the older man, but looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "Are you okay with this drink then?"

It came and passed down my throat with little problem, my teeth licking my teeth over as I smacked my mouth a few times. "I guess the blood of the gladiators at the Capital are a bit saltier than whatever you're hunting."

Her face had immediately been taken aback, she having almost the same reaction Itami had did with his drink.

"It- it was just red wine…"

Itami had caught wind of what my implication was too as I flipped my shot glass upside down on the table, a smile on my face as I looked at them.

"They called that drink in Akusho the "Red Rory". You take spoonful of the blood of your fallen opponent and mix it in a bottle with whatever alcoholic drink you have on hand."

"Good god Kay, you alright?" Itami had tilted his head at me in very purposeful concern.

I patted his back as I laughed. "Aw I'm kidding, I'm kidding…. I usually used my own blood instead."

* * *

The scars running up and down Emerson's body, Boze's scratch across his face, the self-inflicted wound across his left forearm, it had told the story that Emerson had been a changed man very much physically. As for mentally was another matter, but whenever he had been with his squad, his family, his friends, he seemed to be the same Emerson Itami had known ever since that fateful day since Ginza: the uncomplicated, aspiring, child-at-heart, bright young man that had been a person America was proud to have represent it abroad.

Still, Itami didn't appreciate the joke Emerson had with blood drinking. Assuming it was a joke.

The captain wagged a finger at Delilah. He knew who she was in some way. "From what I heard it was a tradition of the Bunny Warriors, wasn't it?" he prodded, upending the shot glass so that the lip was sitting on the table, Delilah's usual joyful disposition put off as a man had found her out.

Her ears twitch as her mouth formed into a thin line. "The Eastern Plains… the Grasslands of the Head-Hunting Rabbits." he said the colloquial name of her homeland. "You haven't been home in some time, huh?"

"No thanks to Tyuule…" she said it under her breath, but Emerson had heard those words, who she had forsaken privately. He was under orders to not divulge her existence. Being before Delilah it was made apparent as her nails grinded against the wood of the table top.

Revenge never seemed to disappear from Emerson, if not his own for Tracey, but it surrounded him from other people: Chuka, Yao, Delilah, Zorzal… the nature of a living being he had long since relegated that feeling too: an inevitability of the living condition.

"During my time in the Capital I heard that the agricultural efforts there were being accelerated due to the fact Italica and its territory is currently no longer usable by the Empire… I'm sure you'll see home again, eh?"

She was a refugee before the Special Task Force had ever came, before Ginza. She shook her head. Most of Myui's maids were refugees from the Empire's wars, saved by the elder Fromar before his death. "I care not for my homeland and my people. I mourn for them, but I must live in their name until I fulfill my duty for their honor."

Emerson had taken a part of the exoticism of the Empire within him during his time in the Capital, for his own survival and sanity. Drawing blood was nothing to him now, nor was self-mutilation. It was the only times he had been willing to bleed, and here had been one of those times as he drew his knife and dug into his palm once into a rather worn part of the skin.

This wasn't the first time he'd done this.

His hands had not felt much of anything now. Between callouses and scars it had left his hands rather numb to touch in the palm. Drawing blood had been an Imperial gladiator's offering to the crowd (and Rory) for that matter. To Emerson it was normal now.

"Some more, would you?" Delilah had looked up from the table she had dazed out of as Emerson made the small cut, she immediately going for the bottle and getting the red, milk concoction into the shot glasses.

Itami had grabbed Emerson's arm and looked at him as if he was insane before he squeezed his palm like an orange for juice over the two glasses. "Kay?" He felt no pain.

"Hearts and minds." he answered in English, wanting to fulfill as such through blood and tears.

A few drops for each shot had been enough as the two had tipped glasses and hit them back, Itami's eyes wide as he had seen Delilah and Emerson drink human blood.

Even after the two had taken the shot Itami hadn't stopped staring at Emerson, the man not understanding why he had been looking at him that way. "What? You trying to tell me I have the drinking problem?"

Itami had been the heavier drinker after all, the two had known. That wasn't the problem though.

Itami had waved goodbye to Delilah for Emerson as he dragged the man away out of her hearing range, grabbing his hand, the other holding a bandage wrap from his pants. "Kay, seriously, _what the fuck_?"

He looked away. "I have no ide-"

Itami grabbed the younger man's shoulders. Words weren't powerful enough, but the disapproving stare was, the slight touching of the forehead as the two men seemingly transferred thoughts, Emerson faltering as he finally realized what the man said.

" _ **Are you okay?**_ " Itami's worry was heavy. Heavy enough that Kay's shoulders had felt it. The captain opened his mouth but no words came out as he cringed, shaking his head. He might've been a grown man, but he was only twenty five, and, in some aspects, still a child at heart.

"I- I don't know man. I just don't fuckin' know." he tried to move his arms but Itami's grip wouldn't let him. "It's just been rough, alright? _I just-_ _ **I just**_."

It was the rapid panting, the cold sweat, the shaking of his hands that had clued Itami into Emerson not being himself. Moreso was the fact that "not being himself" had meant in that instance was that he was having a panic attack.

Itami knew what it was without second thought as he thumbed down on his radio. His mother before her suicide attempt had been lousy with them, so he had known what to do as he had slowly eased Emerson to the side of the street and sat him on the wooden curb.

 _"Hitman 1-1 and 2-1, it's Itami. Need you back here, ASAP, over."_

The man was shuddering, bearing his face in his palms as he breathed hard, heaving, his body vibrating underneath Itami's palm as the man had simply held his shoulders and rubbed his back.

If wars had started in the hearts of men, then Itami had thought that it remained there as he looked at who many in the world had considered the first soldier of this Special Task Force.

"We do what we must, right?" Itami had said as he had seen the masses of the evening pass them by with little regard, thinking Emerson having a little too much to drink instead of this particular crisis. "We do what we must to survive in this world, to have a good life… You told me that after Ginza, during one night out, remember?"

Emerson didn't answer as he sobbed in his own hands.

"I remember, you always gave me shit when I said "Doing nothing" was my way of doing what I must… but you, those words coming from you, they made sense." he gave out a warm breath as he had draped an arm around Emerson, resting his own head on the back of his neck in a lean. "I always admired you, you know…"

Itami had seen Bannon and Masterson slowly making their way through the crowd.

"You actually want to do stuff with your life, you know? Makes it possible for people like me to live their life. I can't judge you for the things you've had to do."

And out from Emerson's mouth had been these words: _"You were there with me."_ Emerson's observation was valid. Itami could've been like this.

"What in Sam Hill?" Masterson had kneeled next to the two, taking Emerson's forearm as he was slowly dragged up and away from Itami, the sergeant and the lieutenant sharing a gaze that Masterson had him.

"Hey, Cam, take him home, would ya'?"

"You talking about the Keep, or you talking about home-home?" Itami had immediately knew that Masterson had referred to America.

"Whatever he needs."

Bannon had leaned to get a look at her captain's face, but she had none to find as Masterson had whispered into her ear to stay and look after Itami. There were two sides to this coin and Bannon had understood as she stood over the lieutenant, his own hands buried in his palms as he remembered a world away and the people that grew him.

Bannon had been patient, she had to be as Itami wiped his own eyes and looked up to only see her break the crowds around them, passing them by.

Just for a second Itami had seen what the crowds of Akusho saw as he looked up at an almost dark figure with one eye: what had been missing had been her cloak and the helmet with the NVG mount that emulated horns.

It was an observance he had kept alone in his mind: that RCT3 had been viewed as angels, amicable, compared to the over watching devils that had been the Rangers in Akusho. It was almost too much for him to believe, but he should've known better. In anime and manga this happened all the time: the devils were more human than one would think.

To many, it was assumed the devil was a politician, or a lawyer; a dictator or a soldier, the men and women who came to destroy lives. To the people of Falmart the Devil had been alive in the face of a dark elf and his followers.

And so Itami had looked up into the eye of a woman that promised hell, and it had looked at him caringly with pale skin, freckles.

A hand outreached and taken, the lieutenant brought up into a standing as Bannon had looked him up and down once, shaking her head. "Still don't know how the pictures make you look so tall."

"Still going easy on me?"

"Only as hard as the captain allows…" she had dusted the man's shoulder off, a frown growing on her face. "You done for tonight?"

He had looked toward Arnus Hill and the congregation of village houses below it: one of them had been Chuka's and the refugee housing. The compulsion to do something had filled his usually lazy and, for the moment, intoxicated heart.

"Do you mind if you get me to Chuka's?" he throated.

For a second, Bannon had decided against it. Then again she had decided against Itami's "Do nothing" policy regarding her from the very start, and that hadn't mattered at all. She had also been personally due to check up on her anyway. She figured her connection with the refugee had been important if JSDF Command had been stressing that same relationship Chuka had with Itami.

They set off walking, it being about two hours short of a new day. Another day to chalk up on top of D-Day.

* * *

Itami wasn't unsociable or particularly awkward, however that had put him as much more talkative than Bannon. Enough so that he had to be the one to initiate conversation as they slowly made their way toward Arnus. "I know Sergeant Masterson and Kay, of course, but I don't really know much about you personally, Sergeant Bannon."

Bannon had wheezed as she gave a breath, shoving her hands in the pockets of her BDU. "Three months in and now you're asking to be my friend?"

"Well, I can only believe what Masterson tells me about you so much, and I think we could be better friends." Itami relented, hands behind his head as he looked up at the blue moon.

"And what does Sergeant Masterson say about me?"

"He's putting $150 dollars down on you next time Sergeant Kuribayashi picks a fight."

"Safe investment. Anything else?"

"I usually tune out when he starts tantalizing about how he feels bad about not sharing the workload more evenly with you regarding taking care of the rest of the Rangers."

She had smiled for a second and closed her eyes. "You'd be surprised by Cameron's work ethic, actually." For all he had said about how she was always reliable, he had been precise, ungodly in his evaluation of situations and documents.

"Son of lawyers, right?"

"Yeah. That has something to do with it."

"He never struck me as a man who came from parents who worked in such… rigid institutions."

"Well what does he strike you as?"

First word on his mind had usually been the one most people had picked. "Funny, lazy, irresponsible at first."

"And me?"

Itami had paused as Bannon turned around, her arms crossed.

"Needed." The eyebrow over her eyepatch had risen. The question on her lips had been answered as Itami spoke first. "I don't have a soldier like you in my team. Sure, Pops is able to take command rather easily, seeing as he's technically my second in command but you…" he shrugged.

"I'm different?" Bannon generalized.

"We all are."

"Not good enough Itami." she glazed over annoyed, Itami feeling Bannon's public personality brush him.

"Hey," Itami had reached out for a second. "What I meant was that I wish I could be you."

She held her head back a bit as she tilted it, both her eyebrows furrowing. "You better clarify Yoji, before it gets weird."

" _ **I know**_ you want Chuka to see someone, _**I know**_ you wanted to save all those slaves, _**I know**_ you wanted so much better for these people than what you were able to provide in hindsight." they still walked as Itami described Bannon to herself. "If I wanted to be a soldier; if I didn't care about providing for Risa or my hobbies and I went in just to serve, I think I would've liked to be like you."

"I'm just doing what's right." Bannon trailed off, never stopping to think about what she had thought was the nature of right and wrong. All she did was what she felt, deep down.

"Well I hope you know Americans don't do that anymore. Not all of them" Itami spoke from an outsider's perspective, and Bannon had to remember she had been in this operation with another people, another country. She had represented her country as Itami had represented his.

"Then what am I doing, pray tell?"

"What I would do… What I want to do."

"I got a feeling you wouldn't tell me the same thing if you were sober."

"I'm- I'm not drunk." he stammered defensively. "I can outdrink Kay, even, and he's just about as big as me… In fact I think he's drunk right now, yeah."

"I'm sure, I'm sure." She herself was still drunk, but she was coherent, and her mind told her that she could pay for her sobriety in the face of the drink in the morning. A child that had been moving around crates with a few other locals had intercepted them as the original refugee housing had come in sight.

It was Ryolu.

His eyes were serious, sunken beneath his black face paint, but then again he had always considered the two soldiers that came to save him from the Flame Dragon to be of a peculiar, dangerous sort. He had made them stop all the same however. His hands had been dirty and calloused from his former work, that being evidently ferrying crates around for something or another: a job designed just to give someone a job more or less.

He had a new job however ever since Black and Bannon brought him back to the keep. That had been as Lelei's assistant.

"Hey hun'." Bannon had reached out her hand and roughed up the boy's dark hair. He had smiled for a second before taking her hand off of himself, looking up at Itami as if confirming that it had been him.

"Madam Lalena requests your presence in Chuka's former room at the refugee dorms."

Ryolu had been a rather attentive assistant to Lelei, being her age, enough to view the world from the same frame she did to an extent. That and the boy's chipper attitude would, in the minds of Hitman and RCT3, possibly make Lelei emote more.

He'd been trying to little avail.

Then again it had only been his fourth day on the job.

"You doing alright, kid?" Once again Itami had talked to a child with dead parents because of his actions, and, in the back of his mind, he felt himself fall lower to where Emerson could've passed.

"I'm doing fine Sir Itami!" he mocked a salute. "Miss Lalena has a lot to say, and seeing as I am her assistant I have to remember it all!"

"…She has a lot to say?" Bannon had croaked out.

Ryolu had nodded furiously. "Also kinda cute too…but don't tell her I said that, okay?" there was no embarrassment in his admittance. One would think the filter on this young boy's thought was unhinged in that sense.

Bannon had kindly nodded. "So go see Chuka?"

Ryolu's face soured up again, looking between the two before nodding again, but slowly, seriously.

"Will do." Itami had pressed forward as Bannon had waved goodbye to the child, on the way back to his new bed at the Fromar Keep.

In the back of her head as she saw Itami press past the gate to the refugee housing compound, she had figured Ryolu would be the only one to get back that night out of the three of them.

* * *

The housing for the refugees had been quiet this late in the night, even if there had been eighty or so still living there: recycled in and out as they came from abroad into the Corridor. Half way houses essentially. UUpsettingly, and unquestioned, the longest resident had been Hodor Marceau.

A room, clothes, and food had still been provided to the man, even if he hadn't been there. The requests for those supplies had been from Chuka however and Itami's orders had rung true unmercifully: keep up the act for her sake.

The two soldiers had found themselves to the particular structure where Chuka and Hodor's room was. Before Itami could grasp the handle the door had flown open first and let the monsters out.

It was Itami's turn as he had frozen as the door opened, Bannon leaning over his shoulder to see what he did physically. She wouldn't be able to know what he had seen inside of his head however. The wine had acted up in Itami's system for a second as the door opened, he shaking his head as the sound of a sobbing woman came from inside.

"Chuka?" As the light flooded out Itami and Bannon had been greeted with another of the refugees.

Bannon had blinked with her one eye at the small form. "Lelei?"

She nodded in greeting at the both of them. "Come in."

And they did. For one moment Bannon had shook her right thigh to see if her M45 had still been there, for whatever reason.

This hadn't been Chuka's house anymore. It had been her original residence as a refugee but she had moved on. She had been given a nice cabin courtesy of Bannon that had reminded her of home. Perhaps that had been the problem though: it reminded her too much of home. She never questioned why she asked for two beds then, never saw too much into it.

The weeping, the crying, the gagging of a depressed woman had resonated through those empty halls. Those sounds were enough to silence and empty the refugee housing. It had certainly made the two soldiers feel dread, Itami more than aware of why in the back of his mind. In some way, he knew he had been the reason for this all.

His stomach had slowly curled. Bannon had swallowed her breath as the shadow of Rory and her halberd creaked out of the room Lelei was leading them to.

There she was, face in her hands, sitting on the bed: a Spartan room with only a table between the two beds meant for temporary housing.

Rory had been sitting on the bed across from her, watching her cry, for she could do nothing until she had the verification that the entire Special Task Force's medical section and the Red Cross had so wanted Itami to face so something could be done.

And when Bannon had seen Chuka's eyes as she looked up, she had seen into the soul of madness, for she recognized it. She had seen Tracey before they had put him in a strait jacket and dragged him onto a flight back to the States.

That madness, and all the Rangers had seen it as they saw Tracey off from Yokota, it had infected them, infected the entire 7th MEU, and it was the fire which burned 200,000 souls in Italica as Tracey and his family's debt was repaid in the blood of Imperials.

And in the end, the debt was paid, and all that was left was the emptiness that revenge

" _Oh no."_ the quiet horror had tumbled off her lips, but no one heard as Chuka let out an involuntary yelp of excitement and relief, lunging at Itami with a tear soaked embrace.

" _ **See!**_ " her cry had been morbid, almost vengeful itself. "He's alive! He's here! Your joke was just plain mean!" she tore away from Itami as her foot had found a wooden chair in the room and sent it flying to the wall, the chair shattering by its leg.

There was Hell in her voice, pure, seething rage that Bannon had heard before only in the crucible of battle. The way her fingers vibrated, her throat expelled all the air from it in her yelling and screaming, tearing at her scalp.

Bannon had stepped back from the doorway a bit as she unlocked the loop on her holster. "Chuka." she spoke as Itami stood there, frozen, Lelei and Rory holding their gazes down.

"When I find that dark elf! That lying dark elf!" she flung out here arms, her fists closed, her teeth shown bare. "That persistent whore! Trying to get help anyway she can!" Her hands had found themselves tied to Itami's back again as she held him, Itami unthawing as everything became undone.

"Revenge? Lies? What are you-"

Chuka answered as her voice kept breaking. " _ **She said that father was eaten by the fire dragon!**_ "

Bannon's nostrils flared as she had come back in, shoving Chuka and Itami's combined form forward as she shut the door behind her, locking it. Deep down she knew this would happen, and here it was, unraveling before her.

Chuka's finger kept touching, prodding at Itami's back as those words had been fully absorbed by him, holding her shoulders as he looked into those deep eyes of the wood elf. "You're here! You're here! With me _**father**_!"

He pushed her away, he tried, so hard, to get out of that room as Chuka was sent to the floor. One hand had gone over his mouth as his other pounded on the window.

The combat high had kicked into Bannon as she had shoved Itami down to the floor as well, the trashcan she had tried to slide over his way too late as Delilah's dinner and wine was put all over the floor.

Bannon should've known better regarding Itami however. If Emerson had a breaking point so would he, and Chuka had been the one to snap his back. Though it went deeper than Bannon would understand: it went into a mother locked up in a mental health facility by court order, a father killed, and a broken childhood that made Itami who he had been today. There was a reason why he wanted to escape into Manga; why he wanted to escape reality.

Chuka had gone past Bannon's legs as Itami vomited, desperately clinging onto her "father".

With Chuka crying, hunching over panicked over Itami's gagging and vomiting form, Bannon had clenched her teeth as she turned to Lelei. "Put them both out, _**now**_!"

As Lelei had literally said the magic words Bannon had only looked in horror as to what was put at their feet, and it had made Bannon unholster her weapon as Itami landed face first in his own vomit, Chuka over his back and seized, hiccupping.

Itami had immediately been rolled over onto his side by the sergeant out of precaution of choking in his own vomit, Chuka also being rolled over to her own space as Bannon had pressed her hands down on Itami's side, the man's gagging eventually subsiding as the blue aura seeped into their skin and put them out.

The father and the daughter or the lieutenant and the elf. Whatever they were they were now side by side, unconscious, equal.

Bannon had snapped her fingers at Rory quickly before pointing at her. "Put out an APB on that dark elf and Sergeant Alton Wilbur. I want them brought here. I want your MPs to handle this, no questions from the JSDF or Marines." A part of her had darkly chuckled. She had been used to doing things underneath the nose of the Special Task Force by now.

Rory had gotten a lightning bolt through her stomach as Bannon talked to her like that, she snapping up and nodding, dashing out the door.

The .45 had gone onto the end table as Bannon had hauled Itami up on a bed, Lelei levitating Chuka to the other as she breathed hardly, her throat tearing up the air in her lungs as she shook her head.

"You're drunk Itami, but you're not THAT drunk." Bannon had spoken English as she cursed the man, using his collar to wipe his mouth. Lelei had understood easily enough however. Her remote access to the Marine library had been enlightening, to say the least. Perhaps she would've known more but in a rare show of contempt she had wanted to damn the Marine Lieutenant Colonel that had been the Slavic squadron leader on him making a note to the library keeper to lock down the records.

It was because of her knowledge did she make a hypothesis on why Itami had reacted in such a way. "To be called a father is not something pleasant for Itami." Lelei had said softly.

Bannon had put the man in question underneath the covers as she turned to Lelei, sitting and tucking in Chuka in turn. "What? He have daddy issues too?" she asked incredulously.

Perhaps in Masterson's poorer observations he had seen it ironic that, between him, Emerson, and she, that Emerson, the impoverished youth who had come from the New York ghettos, was the only one who actually had both parents in his life.

Masterson was estranged and Bannon had been disowned, but still, it perhaps hadn't been as bad as Itami's case.

"According to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police records Itami Hisao had a record of violence against his wife and child, leading to his killing by Itami Yoshiko in what is labeled as a case of self defense."

Hisao and Yoshiko. Itami's parents.

The simple explanation had taken Bannon only a little off guard as she had knocked her knuckles softly in some aggravation against Itami's forehead, his face twisted painfully as he remembered those two people Lelei had mentioned. "Right… right, the captain told us about this before we came… how do you know about that?"

"Wikipedia." Bannon had rolled her eyes as she tried to detach herself, just as Masterson had given her advice to do about with his superficial frankness.

Lelei had probably been the only inhabitant of the Corridor to actually use the internet connection that had been out up. The Red Cross was far away from the lessons of technology, most of the radios sold by the PXs to the locals having come to be either destroyed out of fear or taken back immediately by the Marines out of the eventual fear of bomb making.

The reason the Marines had given to the JSDF had seemed paranoid and overly assuming to them, but the Marines would've have it. The fight to stop the bullet trade had been faltering, radios were much easier to handle.

The same could not be said about mental illness in the Special Region (or even in their world, for that matter).

Thirty-five per day.

That was the current rate of how many veterans and active duty servicemen in the US Armed Forces had taken their lives. The cruelty of it understated by one thing: it was predicted to have come to that point.

In 2022 America had called on its first draft since Vietnam to fight what many had considered the war to finally destroy the Middle East: the Invasion of Iran, Operation Open Wind.

A lottery was held and all able bodied persons, both male and female, across eighty birthdates, were called to service. Sergeant Lumaban had been one of these.

America hadn't been the only one to call a draft. Germany, Britain, Israel (albeit Israel had called a full conscription before Operation Open Wind during their war with Iran), Turkey, Kurdistan, Australia among others: countries far and wide drawn in by America and NATO to fight what had become in all but name a World War in the boiling pot of the Middle East.

It was America however that stayed after the war, just as it always did, and because of that men and women had seen an occupation play out all the same, and those draftees never came home whole, if not at all.

America had brought another war home and America's society had buckled as the millennials became a part of an international group that spanned the nations that went to war: once again a Lost Generation had been born.

Although Japan hadn't gone directly to war with the Coalition of the Damned, the nation had never been one that had been amicable to those suffering from mental stress. The stigma regarding those that suffered from psychological conditions had only been a symptom of Japan's population regressing ever since the start of the 21st century, and the monolithic, conformist culture of Japan had shunned out those like the JSDF Korean War veterans, or those that suffered like Itami's mother.

Perhaps that explained why Itami had handled Chuka the way he did, even in his best intentions. Coming from a country who didn't fire bad workers, but put them in mind draining positions until they quit themselves, denied the benefits of being fired.

However Chuka's rage was something more. Something that rocked Bannon to her core. That flame dragon could've been her. That dragon could've been a Ranger in 2004 come down on her village in different war, in a different world.

That rage was the one that had birthed the war that destroyed the illusion of Middle Eastern peace.

Chuka wanted to do something, and she wasn't the only one that ever had that feeling about the monster that came and killed her people.

She would kill that dragon, even if it meant her own life.

And in that moment Bannon understood, although irrelevant, what Chuka was really capable of. Beyond the magic, beyond her years, beyond what she could do with her fingers wringed around the neck of an elf. She became a monument of American sin, and instead, she belonged to Japan.

Bannon had tried to dig into her shirt for the cross that had been on her chain, however it was not there for her as she sat on Itami's bed, next to Lelei, she holding her staff gingerly as she looked at her benefactor's face. She could not see it though, not when she held it and muttered to herself.

" _God help me."_

* * *

A bag of sawdust had been dumped on the puke, it being absorbed enough for Bannon to brush it into a bag and put out of sight as she sat on Chuka's bed, looking across to Itami as she and Lelei sat in silence, too tired, too late, for any sort of meaningful conversation as they held guard over a refugee and a lieutenant.

Still, Lelei meant well. "May I put you out too, when we get home?"

Bannon had looked up as she fiddled with her M45, the metallic clicking the only rhythm she could find. "I think I'll get to sleep real fast after this hun'." she bobbed her head up and down in agreement with herself. "But I appreciate it."

She ran her hand over Chuka's shoulder. She was asleep, but not at rest. Her mind had been alive and it brought her pain away from the waking world.

"These spells will last until morning, but I do not recommend repeated use… Over use of it causes the recipient to eventually form a resistance against it."

Bannon hadn't really been listening as she ejected the mag to her duty pistol. Seven plus one. Nothing less than .45.

"The M45A1 Close Quarters Battle Pistol was the standard issue sidearm of Marine Expeditionary Unit from 2012 AD to 2025, when it was supplemented by the M9A3…" Lelei spoke English to Bannon as she described the object in her hand. That had gotten her attention. "You are unfamiliar with it."

Lelei's proficiency in English had been courtesy of the man that had held some blame for what had happened to Chuka. She spoke English the same way Wilbur did. It was a particular type of English that Wilbur had spoken. The man had come from the predominantly Scottish Shetland islands, however he had grown up in Glasgow when Scotland had still been a part of the United Kingdom, so as such he had the accent Ewan McGregor and Peter Capaldi had thrown around.

Lelei, Chuka, Rory, the Rose Order, and indeed most of the Corridor who knew how to speak English had, by process of dissemination, spoke like either Obi-Wan Kenobi or the (late) Doctor.

Itami's particular accent of Eastern Japanese had also been a part of the Japanese speaker's tongues.

She thumbed the magazine back in as the gun went back into her holster, remembering words related to what Lelei was saying. "The commander of the Ranger training program, he also opted to be the main drill instructor occasionally with promising cohorts... I remember what Major Walker told me," Lelei had frozen with that name. She knew that name. There was a reason why the Rose Order had documents related to him. There was only one person who had remote access to the Marine Corps archives in Italica. "Your weapon, any weapon, must become a part of your system as soon as you can, and in battle you've got to let it take over... It's easier for a man to become a machine than a machine to become flesh and blood."

"Is it worth it to become a machine just for the sake of battle?"

Whatever answer Bannon had was broken up by the knocks, and her blood had gone cold as she got to it, drawing her pistol again.

The LAM module on Bannon's M45 had been turned on as the knocking on the door had intensified, she going to it, left hand grasping the handle with her pistol in line with her aim. Myuute and Rory had been there, both of them holding either Yao or Wilbur.

"Good morning Staff Sergeant Bannon." Myuute had given greeting to Bannon.

"Is it?" she glanced at her watch, but Myuute had nodded kindly as she held with a death grip onto a tired Sergeant Wilbur, his undershirt and briefs the only thing on his form: warm brown hair raggedy, face unshaven.

Yao had been fully armored up, as if expecting something; this.

"I don't suppose this is you taking up my request, is it Sergeant Bannon?" the man's accent had never been kind to his sarcasm, Yao completely silent as she had been held by Rory. They both were ziptied at the hands behind their backs.

"Myuute, Commander Rory, if you could stand outside for ten minutes or so. I'd like for you to escort them back."

Rory had given a salute with Myuute, they acting like the soldiers the JSDF pretended them to be. As Bannon had grabbed the two individuals of interest she had let this fall out of her mouth: "Thank you, Rory."

She couldn't see it, but Rory had given off a stupid grin as she stood guard in front of the door. Myuute's feathers had ruffled as she felt that particular, haunting vibe of the reaper come off of her commander.

"Is she really one of them?" she asked.

Rory had giggled as she was satisfied with the very fact of her answer. "One of the five, yes."

There were a thousand questions Bannon could've asked and a thousand questions that the two individuals in front of her were expecting.

 _ **Where'd they find you?**_

 _In the barracks, sleeping._

 _At my housing, praying._

 _ **What the fuck do you think you're doing Wilbur?**_

 _Trying to get Yao the help she needs, I'm sorry, this is the only way I know how._

 _ **What the fuck did you do Miss Ducy?**_

 _I told her the truth! The truth we both share. To show her what I see when the Fire Dragon comes and goes._

Bannon had asked none of those choice questions they had prepared in their head however. All she did was utter one word as she held her hands on her hips, even Lelei's brows slightly slanted in disappointment.

"Why?" the weight of that one word tore the breath from the lungs of the accused.

Yao had answered, but she reached out to Itami. She didn't recognize the woman with the eyepatch and fire in her throat. "I needed him to see the truth with her so that he would do something." she croaked out quietly, defiance brewing in her throat.

"Why him?"

"It was either him or Emerson." Wilbur had admitted as he looked away. "And I know Emerson's a lost cause with who he was trained by…"

Bannon took personal offence. "Excuse me sergeant?" she stepped forward, Wilbur shrinking back under the scrutiny of a Ranger. He had known Emerson was trained by the only man who survived Dubai, but he hadn't known that Bannon had been too.

He tried to forget the top secret document he and Noelle had recovered from Bozes, but he didn't, not when in the quick flipping he had caught Emerson's face in the document under the word "supervisor/trainer of".

There were seven other pictures in that document under that heading, and unknown to anyone else, Bannon had been one of them. She respected Walker, despite everything. She didn't know what he had been through to make him as he was, but he trained her right.

It was how she survived now.

"Nothing. Nothing."

Bannon took another step, only for Yao to step in front of him, protecting him. "Itami has acted out of line for Chuka before, risked his life and sanity to protect her mind. I only want to make him protect her fully now!"

"Who told you he would?"

Jasper Kincaid. A dozen JSDF officers. The shifty lieutenant named Yanagida. Even some Marines. They all had said the same thing to this question: _"What would Itami do?"_

Itami would have an answer that Yao would want, yet no one would know what it exactly was.

The answer was yet to be discovered, but fast approaching.

"And you already went up the chain of command and got denied?"

Wilbur had whispered into Yao's ear before she gave an answer. _**"She was with him."**_

Yao's eyes grew wide as she realized who Bannon had been and what she was capable of. She was another one she could ask, her eyes also growing deep and her words becoming impossibly desperate. "Please- please, please." she stepped forward toward Bannon, offering herself. " _They won't help me. No one will but Alton, and he can't do it alone, I need you._ _ **I need you**_ **.** " she said fast, almost too fast for Bannon to understand.

Bannon raised her hands defensively, her voice also raising. "Hold on, hold on. What the fuck is going on, why did you do all of this." She answered her own question however. She remembered why Wilbur was here. She remembered who she was. _**"Oh my god."**_

"Bannon, please, I've already told you this all. You understand why we're doing this, right?" Wilbur had begged. How funny it was to see the commander of Kingdom Come, a knight of Italica, sound so helpless.

It was because of Jack Daniels that Bannon had started laughing, a hand brought to her forehead as she turned around, one hand still on her hip as she stood unbelieving. "I can't believe this." The broken chair that Chuka had thrown had still been there and mercifully it was there for Bannon to break with her boot as she snapped back, the two individuals snapping petrified as she had seen Bannon take on a cold brown eye at them. "How old are you?"

Yao had straightened her back at the question she didn't expect. "330 years."

"She's only a 165 years old, Miss Ducy, she is a child to you. You are _**her elder**_." Bannon had stressed that last part. To Bannon Chuka was just a child. A fair, innocent lady. The sergeant had tried to take the dark elf's hand but she tore away.

"You think I wanted to do that?!" her hands had instead curled as she took a step forward, out, in front of her as if begging. "She and I are kin in this world! How could I possibly do anything to her if I didn't need to?!"

The two Marines in the room had felt a pang of judgement cross their hearts as Yao spilled her bleeding heart. "She is like me! I know what she really feels, regardless if I needed her or not! I did not want to do it. I did not-" she sobbed as she fell onto her knees. "Please. Oh gods, please. I'll do anything for my clan. _**I have to**_."

She bowed before Bannon, face on the floor, as if in Islamic prayer. Wilbur had crumpled onto his knees as well.

"How can we ignore such a request? How can we? It's not right." Just like the old British colonials of old Wilbur had gone through a war tattered Africa in the search of black gold, turning a blind eye to the native strife he had caused and ignored. He thought he ignored families drowning in polluted rivers, skin rubbed raw by acid rain as hands and limbs were chopped off by warlords of their own creation, but no, he saw it all. He saw it all and put it in the back of his head and told himself to never look over his shoulder. He never wanted to until the evils came to his family, his land, and that guilt had followed him to another frontier. "We're here to help these people, right? Make sure the Japanese don't go full on imperial and Nanking on their arses, right? Then why don't we double down and help her people?"

"Because we can't just help people because we feel for them, Sergeant Wilbur." Bannon had winced at her own words. She didn't believe herself. "History has proven that whenever we interact with a lesser civilization, no matter how well meaning that interaction is, neither side is better off because of it."

"Oh come on Sergeant Bannon, don't go all Captain Picard Star Trekky on me. That idealistic drivel means jacks hit to people who have killed as many as we have."

Bannon's visible eye had furrowed sharply as she had taken her pistol out, held it across the barrel, a smack coming across Wilbur's cheek from the grip. "Don't tell me who I am, Marine." his body crumpled to his side as he hit the dampness where Itami had puked.

Wilbur had spit at the floor as he had recovered from the swipe. "Well if you don't help her, you're no better than the fucking Yanks that dragged us in during 2003." the way Wilbur had spoken in his daze had revealed he hadn't been speaking as an American outright.

Lelei had leaned in intrigued behind Bannon. " _You are an immigrant_."

Wilbur had looked away as Lelei had guessed correctly. "If it was done for Germany, _**for Japan**_!" he had stood back up, zipties still on, "It could've been done for Iraq and Afghanistan!"

The tanker was just a child when America led the Coalition of the Willing into war, but he remembered the British rhetoric: On how Britain tried to stall the invasion long enough for an actionable, post-war plan to be drawn up. The plan that was going to be used for Iraq hadn't been changed ever since West Germany's reconstruction, that official plans reading that the official Iraqi currency should've been a Deutsch Mark.

The world had known American didn't have a plan for the rebuilding, the reconstruction, the nation building, but yet still they followed the superpower into the Middle East to be buried alive.

The world had blamed America for the mess of the Middle East and all the sons and daughters of the world lost there, and Wilbur had known both sides of that pain.

"We're not expanding the war god dammit! We're just helping her! We're killing some rabid animal, not god damn bin Laden or some terrorist group!"

"That's what you're telling yourself, Wilbur."

Itami had woken up at that moment, but Bannon was done, even as Yao had continued to bow before them both in a pitiful sob.

"What's going on?"

* * *

Hearing the sob story twice didn't convince Bannon any more.

It didn't convince Itami as well as he cast the sheets off of himself and stood before the elf bowing before him, his fists curled and anger written in his eyes.

It was the anger Emerson had.

His foot had came under her collar bone as he lifted her up before kicking her into the wall. Wilbur had sprung up, only to be also brought to the floor by Bannon before he could do it.

 _ **"Let go of me bitch!"**_

Bannon had stayed silent as Yao spit up from the impact, Itami getting it on his shirt as he snapped, chest to chest with her as he raised his hands and looked directly into her eyes. He had dirty finger nails, that much he knew, but he also knew how sharp they were as he closed it around the Elf's throat.

Itami had rung his fingers around her neck as Wilbur had been shoved to the floor by Bannon, her knee on the back of his neck as he screamed his English at them all.

She coughed as her airways had been constricted slowly, agonizingly, her hands clawing at Itami's own and marking them up with her own nails as she choked. Itami had only forced her down onto her knees as he didn't let go.

Bannon listened to his orders: to do nothing.

And all Lelei did was watch, watch as she saw a man so caring strangle a woman to death.

Her fingers had found space in between Itami's thumb for what possibly would be her last words to get out.

"Please! Kill me! Just promise me you'll go to my tribe and save them! _**I don't want to be here!**_ "

Itami's eyes had gone wide as the box in his mind where all his nightmares had opened up just a smidgen. Enough for the worst one to come out, the one that sent him to the life he lived, the one he buried underneath magical girls, fantastical anime, and manga.

 _ **"I don't want to be here Yoji! Get me out of here! Don't leave your mother here, my son!"**_

His pulse quickened, yet his heart went cold, eyes gone moist as the past came to him and told him of his failures. The alcohol, the magic, what was happening, his eyes had betrayed him as he saw his hands wrap around his mother's neck to silence the pleading.

Air had been sucked into his lungs so hard it had made the sound of sucking as he stepped back, unbelieving of what he had thought he had just done. He cast his eyes down around his hands and looked at them in horror. "Fo- forgive me Mom!" he yelled. There was no mother there however to forgive him however.

There was no one there worthy of forgiveness.

* * *

Yao had only looked at the Man in Green as his grip around his throat had gone, leaving only imprints of his thumbs against her neck, she breathing raggedly as Bannon had forced Itami to sit on the bed again.

A part of her sobriety had risen as she looked at every person in the room in disgust. Unexplainable contempt and disgust as she started breathing raggedly like an ox.

And Yao had preached above it all as she regained her voice and yet cried. "Revenge brings peace to the souls that have been lost. By doing that, those left behind can see reality and look up and see tomorrow. _Please!_ _ **She's on my level now**_ _!"_

Bannon had meekly thought if Ramirez was here he would've said something to the contrary. He always had something to say to the contrary. He was the man who had seen those wars of revenge and justice carried out before her time in the military and he knew nature best through war and conflict. Revenge meant only so much.

Perhaps she should've asked someone who had lived Ramirez's life ten times over though, as that person had opened the door with a sneer. "Huh, it feels like someone died in here."

Rory knew it was time for the two persons of interest to leave, for their own sake.

"That might just be Bannon's residual aura, Rory." Lelei had always been literal.

"Oh, I know…" she said all too wisely, halberd held across her chest. "Should I take them back, Bannon?"

 _"Get them out of my sight."_

Yao had made one last effort however that night, leaning toward Bannon as Myuute had grabbed her hands and began to drag her. "Promise me though, will you do something? For me? For her? _ **For my people**_?"

Bannon hadn't cleared her voice. "You're _entitled to_ _ **nothing**_ , and we don't make promises." Yao's face had churned into a mixture of disappointment and hopelessness as she was lead out, making sure she had stared right into Itami and Bannon's eyes all the way out.

"What do I do, Bannon? The question from Itami had taken Bannon off guard as she holstered her pistol, her eye's irritation beyond comfortable toleration. So she had turned around, looking at the elf, the man, and the mage, and how they all looked to her for guidance.

She had none to give. She had no place to give any if she had any.

"For all the shit you gave Kurokawa…" Bannon had ground through her teeth as she had taken a chair, rubbing her fingers on her forehead, rubbing her eye through the eyepatch. She would be betraying her training however if she didn't have a plan at this point. "Alright," she pointed at Itami and then to Chuka. "Get her to her house, put her to bed. You're sleeping over with her in the morning. If she calls you father again you're gonna die with lie for as long as it goes on while we sort this out."

"Die with the lie?"

"It's your lie and her lie, Lieutenant Itami. From what I saw it's not going away until _someone_ dies…" she had dazed out, looking disdainfully at the unconscious elf, finding herself back on her bed. She had not been the only one about the fall victim to tiredness, a blue haired head coming onto her shoulder softly in a lean.

Out of old habit she had shifted enough, lowering Lelei's head to her lap, the mage's eyes fluttering closed as Bannon ran her hands through her head fondly.

Once, long ago, in a Montana mansion far away, a maid had done this to Bannon as a child, lulling her asleep during restless nights when her parents were in Los Angeles or New York City. She never found out what happened to that maid, or even knew her name, but she missed her.

It was a unanimous decision that she and Lelei were going to be staying the night as well.

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

 _ **Falmart – The Imperial Capital – The Senate**_

* * *

The Senate and the Imperial Palace had still stood. That was what had been Emperor Molt's take away from it all: that the monsters that came had left the foundations of their Empire intact.

The night after the earthquakes came and Kay's Rangers had left with the Men in Green from Japan it was a night of silence. Horror had infested the minds of the Empire as the dead were dragged away: their bodies being dug into to take out the pieces of metal that had done them in.

With scalpels and knives, with hammers and with wedges for the rounds dug into the walls of the Imperial palace, the bullets had all been slowly recovered.

Every casing, every bullet, every iota of what the Demons of Akusho and the Men in Green left behind was collected.

Arguably the biggest left behind had been the princess herself.

As the sun rose over the Capital and the damage of the earthquake was laid for all to bare, masses had congregated out into the common areas and temples to grieve and to rebuild, reeling from what many had considered the anger of gods come down on them.

Pina had seen true anger however in green eyes bearing down on her, the royal family had seen rage in the cacophony of gunfire that would now remain with them to the end of their days.

She had run back to her mansion and gathered all of her copied notes into her hand, forgetting that one of her hands had been glued to the Luger until she had seen the collected nine millimeter rounds she had taken from the Garden Party. Hurriedly she had thumbed in the rounds into the magazine of the weapon before taking back off to the Capital.

Zorzal had been beaten. Badly. She had never thought Itami capable of something she had more so expected Emerson to do (and to do to her specifically). He had beat in his face, burnt his skin, and broke bone all in exchange for meek, vague words on the other slaves.

All of them, all their preaching about peace was backed up by a violence of action she had seen damn 200,000 Imperials at Italica.

If Pina had wanted to know how many lives the Special Task Force would take for one, then the evidence brought to her that morning was fifty three. Fifty three of Zorzal's knights and the guards who sprung to action in defense of the Empire against the Rangers and the JSDF were cut down by unceremonious gunfire which left pieces of people strewn royal carpet and walls.

The senators had been called with the surviving military commanders to the Senate, all of them bypassing the destruction, the bodies, left by the Demons of Akusho and the Men in Green. The day before the earthquake had been alight with rumors that a new sect of apostles had appeared in Akusho: capturing a crime lord and his estate in the middle of the night. The military commander in charge of Akusho's peace hadn't considered the tales of the cloaked demons with horns roaming the rooftops to be serious enough to investigate.

In that day and age however rumors had a habit of becoming truth, and truth was more horrifying than mystical tales.

That morning after the earthquake and the slaughter at the Emperor's feet the truth had been revealed as this: Princess Pina Co Lada and a band of senators vying for peace against the enemy on Arnus Hill had let them into the Capital and spill Imperial blood before Imperial feet.

"The people of my district have been talking about these new mystical drugs being sourced from Akusho! Medicines that cure the mind of aches and put one at rest after only a spoon of blue liquid!"

"Aye! Clothes and fabrics from that damned district is suddenly worthy of riches! Foods beyond comprehension that are making my cooks go into Akusho! How dare they dirty their hands with that filth!"

"We need to go into Akusho and burn that district to the ground! With that cancer that the Demon Lord has implanted within it!"

As was the beauty of Imperial politics, the senate floor was an open forum, and the discussion that day was over Emerson and the Men in Green that had come and gone.

And all that the emperor did was sit there and watch as the sides of this complicated war took shape, and the Doves and the Hawks had all found each other in yelling and in fury. They knew who each other were now, and perhaps Molt wouldn't need to lift a finger to clear the air. The Hawks and his beaten son would be more than willing to make examples of them in due time.

So he stayed silent. Decisions were often made by this republic without him, and generally that had been for the best. He was no stranger to blood and gore, he having been on several conquests before, however the violence that had appeared in his court room had been the excuse for him to stay quiet as the senators bickered among each other, Pina in the center of the chamber as the focus point of all those yells.

She failed in the end, to create a peace with honor. Her punishment: to be held accountable for the dead that the Rangers and the Men in Green had left.

The bodies that had been done being processed had been brought into the senate room as the first true display of what these people from beyond the Gate were capable of.

The dead never went away as they did in fairy tales and stories: lost to pages of unsaid details as a reader created the scene in their mind. The bodies were there as the testament to a life that once was and what had been done to it.

In Ginza, the bodies that hadn't been the civilians were cremated and scattered into the Tokyo Bay. A hundred feet out of Camp Omega, that side of the Gate, the refugees and the scavengers were given wage to pick up the bones and the left behinds of another 60,000 dead, the entire site sanitized by the Harriers and JSDF Chinooks spraying decontaminants over the entire area to lessen the ecological effect of so many dead.

In Italica, the bodies by Myui's orders were all stripped of their belongings and given a giant funeral pyre. The air had stunk of ash and death for weeks afterwards.

Curiously enough, gruesomely, the fields of Italica where they had died had become more fertile because of it.

At Sadera Hill, the bodies were used as example: their names painted across their chests (if their flesh hadn't been holed beyond recognition) respectfully. Pina had been brought before every body and told to remember their names as the inky remains of blood dripped to glossy floors and reminded her that every drop was simply that: a drop in an ocean of red that could yet to be spilled.

"Look!" One senator had yelled at Pina as she stood frozen at the bodies. "Do any of their faces look like they received the peace that those Men in Green, the Americans, want?!"

She had nothing to say as she looked at the half head of an Imperial guard, simply doing his job: his jaw all that was left as the rest of his skull was gone to a battle he could not win.

His name was Itho Toren.

Another man, his heart torn out by bullet, his face frozen in twisted agony, had been one of Zorzal's own. His name was Silus Sivas.

Avtius Nova. All the rounds had missed his vital organ, however he had bled out because of it in agony as the Rangers and RCT3 walked out over him. They had no mercy to give him as he begged with his dying breath to be put out of his misery.

None of the bodies there had more than four or five holes through them, but the dinner plate holes at the exit points of the damage had told the tale that only one bullet was enough. No one had told the Rangers that as Pina retreated from the scene immediately after the Rangers had taken off with their black machine beasts of flight, counting in her daze and emotional confusion the amount of brass that they had left behind.

The Rangers had dropped their empty magazines in their dump pouches by habit, however Kuribayashi in her rage had simply left the blocky aluminum behind amidst the golden shower of casings. They had fired hundreds and hundreds of rounds, Emerson's grenade having shattered much more than just the bodies he had intended it to destroy as well.

"Pina!" the senators shouted.

" _ **What?!**_ " she turned around from the bodies, yelling right back at them, trying to put up a stand, however she could not. Not when she turned around and see, finally, all the senators united toward one thing: not war, not peace, but her and her deeds.

The Rose Order that was present was there, behind them: Zorzal's surviving knights and guards. It didn't take much tactical knowledge to know that they were trapped, being held in judgement by both the dead and the living.

What had once been a simple recon mission by the Rose Order had, although fulfilling its purpose, turned the Empire upside down.

They were to blame, even if it is what the Emperor had wanted.

Perhaps the Emperor had wanted Pina to fail. To let her know failure, but she had seen the other side and knew more than anyone else how the Empires on the other side of the Gate operated.

As Pina had yelled back and forth with the senators and generals he had given off a slight smile.

"We have not yet killed one of their people! Not one! And that is at the cost of nearly 260,000 of our men!"

That gave Pina pause before she was able to yell a response back, remembering Bozes, remembering the thousand mile stares of the protector of Italica from RCT3. Ever since 2015 across the globe nearly 50,000 veterans of the War on Terror and the Invasion of Iran had taken their lives. Not only American, but NATO, the world, as a whole knew more than ever the tragedy of the endless war again as they came back to the Middle East and joined America again.

"They wouldn't have _**the heart**_ to kill us all." Pina had starkly laughed, looking to the pool of blood left by the hanging bodies: on crosses.

Crucifixion was not the same as it was on the otherside as Pina had understood. It was thought to have started by the Bunny Warriors to mark territory: dead prey cast upon a cross to let a scavengers know what would happen to them if they passed. However the Bunny Warriors always held their prey in high respect, and so the bodies were treated with care befit of fallen warriors.

The gradual decomposition of the body to the Bunny Warriors in their culture dignified purification and returning to the Earth. To be used on a cross was not a punishment in that respect.

Above her had been the body of Atillus Buteo. He was missing half his teeth from a bayonet.

"There is no possible way they would have enough supplies to deal with us all!" another stray voice from that crowd.

A grey haired general had stepped forward as he realized what Pina did, his face well shaped, cheeks, chin, nose all rather bulbous, his gaze like one of an eagle. He had been the one that replaced Foulke's command after he had been killed in the gladiator pits, and with General Hebron still a POW the man had risen to power. "We can bring an additional 400,000 new men in the army from the vassal states, as well bring the combat institution at Rondel up to full relevance." his voice had been like sand, shifty.

Pina had recognized the man however, not by name. She as a consequence of her position had never really bothered to learn the names of the Imperial Generals, however this man was crafty. She had originally thought he had been a lowly foot soldier with how he had attended Emerson's sessions. Yet he was one of the only to actually bring him down to the ground.

She couldn't for the life of herself remember is name, even as the lower officers had gotten behind him.

The general had looked to the Emperor and gave him a nod, which was given back. "Princess Pina, you are relieved of your operational command for the time being. This war is beyond you and your Rose Order."

"Beyond them?! The Rose Order is to blame for this war, for this death! They've been in contact with the Demon Lord ever since we lost contact with Italica! They brought him here! That false prophet!" A senator from the crowd.

"They tricked me!" was the lie that danced from Pina's lips as the senators of the Empire, both hawk and dove, came down at her from the sidelines. Hamilton had looked at her leader's face and knew it was a lie. She had sipped from the devil's water all too willingly. An anger was boiling inside of her as she saw Pina try to defend herself, wrongly.

"Why did we treat them any differently?! They're just another foe!"

"They have our own people prisoner! I am not the only one that knows this!" her voice had burned as she had unintentionally swept her hands at the doves.

"You chose their families instead of the commanders? The knights?! If they returned they would've been our best assets in this war!" another hawk screaming at Pina. "Let the captured be turned into slaves! We'll free them in due time!"

"The Japanese, the Americans, they don't believe in slavery, it is not the way of their people anymore."

"Then how have they produced such powerful empire? Such terribly loud weapons?"

Pina had remembered as she had clutched Doc's Luger against her breast, hidden underneath her robes and armor.

It was a very grisly fact that she could not believe.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

" _Of the past 3,400 years, humans have been entirely at peace for 268 of them, or just 8 percent of recorded history."_

 _The New York Times, regarding War, 2003_

* * *

"They have waged war for longer than we have been an Empire. They have waged war since, in our times, since before Emroy was an apostle."Pina had remembered the Empire which the gun in her hand had come from and who it had to serve. She had to wonder what Rory would think of the dictator, of Adolf Hitler, and if she would get any pleasure from the millions he had killed. " _ **They have perfected war**_."

She had to wonder what a soldier such as Emerson would've done to that man if he had the chance and lived in the era that World War Two existed in. Perhaps it would've been the same he had done in the throne room.

"Towers that reach toward the heavens! Flight by machine! Unlimited energy harvested by the wind, the suns, the bones of the ancient dead! Food that is grown in containers so no family shall starve! Education, entertainment, at the tips of their fingers!" a knight from the Rose Order who had studied had yelled loud. "It's true! All of it! They live like gods!"

The gasps and shock throughout the senators had resounded as that fact had settled, shame burrowing into Pina's consciousness.

"How could we possible win a war against such a world with that history?"

 _ **"Why is such a great civilization picking a fight with us then?!"**_

 _ **"Because I know how to fight them!"**_ and in between her fists had been a copy of her notes; a specific section she had studied most with Emerson's iPad during the train ride to Hakone.

Itami had been asleep at the wheel as she and Bozes had learned of Vietnam, of the Imperial Japanese measures against an American invasion of the home islands, of Iraq and Afghanistan. However, most of all as she had sketched a black and white flag as the header that page of Doc's notebook, she had studied the story of an _**Islamic State**_.

She was not the only one to read that story however, Hamilton had, and she had known what that Islamic State stood for. To fight as it had would be heinous and she would not allow it, stepping forward from the Rose Order ranks, disgust surrounding her like an aura.

"Princess Pina! You can't possibly think of replicating _**that!**_ "

"These countries, there people! They were the ONLY ones able to bring America to her knees! They are our only option if they mean war! Their example _**needs to be followed**_!"

"We are not _**Viet-nahm**_! We are not this _**Middle East**_! We are the Empire, Princess Pina! We cannot fight as they do because we are not them!"

"This Empire has lived and existed as an assimilating power for centuries! Taking the _**ideas of these people**_ will only make us _**stronger**_!"

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _ **In 10 or 15 years**_ _, we will look back fondly on the days when there were only a few thousand Middle Easterners dedicated to destroying the U.S. and willing to die for the fundamentalist cause._ _ **From this war, a million bin Ladens will bloom.**_

 _The Onion, in a satirical article criticizing American disregard to consequences of Middle Eastern intervention,_ _ **six days**_ _after the Invasion of Iraq._

* * *

"What kind of nonsense are you talking about Pina?! Ideas only mean so much if there's no way we can fight them!"

"Guerilla warfare! That is their weakness!"

The senators had started to laugh at Pina as the words had clicked in their heads, she looking around as the senators all gaped and humored her.

"Guerillas? Like the animals that constantly harass our colonies?"

"Fighting _like animals_? Princess, we're much more civilized than that!"

They didn't take the Special Task Force seriously, Pina had thought. Inversely no one could take Pina seriously until she brandished the Luger.

In the enclosed, echoing space, the nine millimeter pop had made the sound of thunder as she aimed the gun up at the ceiling and found her own way to call for attention. The senators who had been at the garden party immediately had shrunk back behind someone or another as they remembered the power of a firearm.

"Nine millimeter _**Parabellum**_ is what this weapon propels out of its barrel! _**Parabellum!**_ " Pina had stressed the word. "I studied what that word was and why it sounded so familiar to me!" In a less than astounding show of firearm safety Pina had slid the barrel of the gun across the circled rows of senators, all of them fearing for their life as they finally understood what that object could do. No one would dare see Pina relieved of it as she had that anger, burning in her eye.

"It is of the _**old language**_! The language that humans first spoke when we came here from Arnus. Whether through the divine providence of coincidence or the gods, we have always understood what this word was buried deep within our history, ourselves!" She had kneeled down to pick up the ejected casing, remembering it was one of dozens she had collected personally, at least a hundred more plus the metal boxes which carried them and were shoved into the guns, magazines, had been recovered. " _ **If you seek peace, prepare for war**_."

For all the anger that the Rose Order had thrown Emerson's way, only once did Hamilton see that anger thrown back at her: the first day he had been here she had been thrown to the floor by Emerson.

"That- that weapon!" One of the senators had pointed at the black object in Pina's hand, the tip smoking. "How did you acquire it?!"

Pina did not answer it as that senator broke through the crowd and tried to approach Pina. She had advised against it with lowering the gun at him.

He dropped to his knees, cowering. The Empire finally understood what a firearm could do. "P-Pina," he pleaded. "We must have this weapon, it is our only chance!"

"What honor does such a weapon have in the battlefield!? That is all we have! Why should we cast that out?!" a voice from the crowd had ticked Pina as she turned toward that voice.

"In war, _honor is subjective, honor is a liability_. _**The only unfair fight is one that we lose**_ , and I do not intend for the Empire to lose any more than it has, after all this time."

When Hamilton had been thrown beneath Emerson onto the floor of Pina's palace, cold green eyes looked at her and she had seen rage that wanted her dead for daring to fight him. A rage born and borne from years of simply being alive and living with what he had to do.

Hamilton had convinced herself that is what she saw in the flint of Pina's eyes as she repeated Emerson's lessons in voice. So to did his lessons reverberate in her head. His voice, his unforgettable, cold, growling voice he used to give orders, it echoed in her head like an infection.

 _"…that hate, boiling inside you, makes us more and more similar every day."_

 _"That Demon Lord! He_ _ **corrupted**_ _you!"_ the accusation was dramatic, but true. Emerson had taught her. "That entire world is damned! That world which they come from is simply the domain of _ **Hell**_!"

"How can you say that when you've known how they live on the otherside?!"

Because it was Pina's orders to Boze and her knights to gather such history about it and send it to Sadera. Hamilton had known too what that history was. "They have filled their lungs with poison and burn the bones of their past as fuel for their machines! They have seen two towers fall full of the innocent! The innocent! And how millions of innocent more were killed _**to avenge them**_! They have made ancient cities older than this empire crumble by making the stars fall on them! The blue sky have become a weapon for their reapers while they harness the power of the sun to set the world on fire!

Bozes has visited Hell, and saw into the fiery center of the beast and she knows better than you because of it! They have denied their genocides again and again and they have made their generations grow up accustomed to this by letting them play soldier by the same grace Bozes experienced the hellfire!

Families burned _**alive in an oven**_! Children _**no older than we**_ , sent into a thankless war to destroy cultures that never deserved it! That is our coming future if we follow them!

They will consume us alive, Pina! They will burrow into our hearts and let us became a part of their dark history as our sons and daughters are given up as sacrifice to their machine until we are left with nothing! Nothing but the reminder of who we once were! And Kay has told us: There are fates worse than death and **that is one**!"

Pina snapped out of it as she heard the accusation come from someone she hadn't anticipated. "Hamilton! Listen to yourself! I'm still Pinya! I trained you, we grew up together! Remember our first marching drills? How you would slip an-!"

She did not listen. "You've told me your lessons of America! You said you know what kind of empire they are! The evils they've done, what they'll do here! You're not Pina Co Lada! You've become _**just another American**_! _**Just like Zorzal said**_!"

"What?! That was never my dream! Never what I wanted for this Empire!" Hamilton hadn't listened to her commander as the rage, the fever, took her over.

 _"You did this! You let this happen!_ _ **All of it!**_ _"_

She drew her sword and she had seen what Emerson had saw whenever she had confronted them. Pina had seen the rage Bozes' had when she had lashed out against Emerson and made her mark. The righteous fury, and how she was complicit in it: blind following would've saved her soul for only so long.

 _ **"No!"**_

The metallic bang that damned them all had rung out again from Pina's hand.

The shot heard around the world echoed throughout the senate, and it had been more deafening than the Americans or the Japanese could ever hope to be. The weapon that had rang out had been a hundred and twenty eight years old at that point, and it had rang out with the same loudness as it had underneath Bismarck's reign in the name of their own Empire. Of all the people that gun had killed, from a Jewish violinist, a Russian conscript, a German tank commander and many more during its life: it could add a knight of the Rose Order to that list.

The world fell apart in slow motion as the hole, right center, of Hamilton's forehead had appeared: a dinner sized shaped cavity appearing at the back of her head as her brain and skull came out with the bullet.

She knew from her teachings as the gun bucked in her hands and her mind rung with insanity: this is what American Wars do to a people.

In the long perspective: just another Imperial had died in that room. But to Pina it was something more. It was personal.

The aspiration of American dreams for Pina had followed the same path as the dreams of the United States: it ended with a nightmare.

Pina had killed someone like this before: however this was the first time she had felt the kill. It hadn't been some faceless marauder, a bandit, an assassin. No. This was Hamilton Uno Ror, and her body had skidded on its knees as it crumbled, her body face first into the earth.

Every sense of hers was burning, ever emotion she could've felt, every regret, every memory that she had shared with that young woman, every single battle and march she had led with her in it. It now all added up to the sum of zero:

She had killed one of her own, and she had followed her down into the earth as she collapsed herself.

 _"No! No! Oh gods- Oh GODS NO!"_ She fell onto her knees, onto her hands, as the Luger fell forward in front of her face. It taunted her.

One of Emerson's trainees had rushed over to Pina, kicking the gun out of her reach as the rest had all apprehended the Rose Order, no matter what they thought of Emerson.

Pina had been used to working inclusively. Between her Order and the Emperor namely. Because of that she had forgotten who else had learned from Emerson: unbogged by the trivialities of morals and duty to a greater good.

Regular Imperial Soldiers and Officers had heard Kay Ro Bronxon, Emerson, talk of war, and teach them of war. She had ignored them: thought them only as grunts to die for the Empire. They weren't her own. That was a lesson she had failed to take from Emerson however: every soldier had a life, a name, a family, a reason to fight. That had them as great as he, and he as great as them.

To Pina, the man was faceless, but still with that soldier came the judgement of the Empire as her Order were all brought to the floor by the purest of Emerson's pupils in combat: their arms held across their backs as the Emperor had witnessed that Emerson's intent did not mean war. He had given a piece of himself to the people he trained in good gesture, and, the irony, was that his training seemed like it would be used against him and his task force in the end.

So the Rose Order had been brought to the floor again: just like Italica, just like the Marines that had subdued them at first.

Some had tried to fight back but the shock of Pina killing one of her own had petrified them as the senators and generals screamed for blood and the Emperor was left behind, only to sit at his throne as the Republic of his Empire ate itself alive.

In another world they would've reconciled over Pina's failure by the fact she herself was almost killed by the destruction of the very senate and capital they were standing in: made to rubble under the scrutiny of several thousand pound bombs. However this was not that world, and the anger they had would instead be focused on the only existing monument to failure before them: Pina herself.

They screamed for her head.

The Luger had drifted across the floor into the grips of a fallen queen, and she had held it as if she was holding it all her life. The crowd had drawn their attention to her as she stood in her barely modest outfit, the pistol held tightly by her. "I speak on behalf of Prince Zorzal."

Her notes were picked up and looked over by the senators, the most important object claimed by Tyuule.

"And what does he say, Tyuule?"

 _ **"She shall be punished."**_

* * *

It was a good idea. A collective one as the rope had been unfastened around her wrists, the present Rose Order dragged outside to the very steps of the Capital for all the Empire to see.

Tyuule had suggested another option. A more fitting option to punish the hands that dared write treaties bowing to the enemy: to have the Empire live on its knees as opposed to die honorably on its feet. To have the enemy in to infect the great Empire.

The ancient bunny warriors had always been a culture of knives: and the drawing of ones own blood by their own dagger was seen as a humiliation, if not a painful mistake. Written in the ancient texts had been the stories of hands being pierced by blades to walls to keep prisoners staying where they were.

She did not need to explain as two of Zorzal's surviving knights had drawn Rose Order daggers and walked over to Pina as their forms blocked out the sun.

Her palms were laid flat, facing the sky, as she realized what was happening. Her body had vibrated desperately as she screamed through the gag, her fingers locking up in all their desperation as in one quick motion came the plunge, the twist, the push, and the lock.

Her ragged screams had bit through the cloth over her mouth: truly the sound of a dying empire's cry as tears ran from her eyes as much as the blood from her hands did, no respite given as the cross had shifted and the flesh on her hands further sliced and grinded by the blade as she was hauled up.

She had failed her trainer, her training, as she screamed for what gods there were. Her Order all frayed out along that wall of crosses with her awaiting her same punishment. Bearing the burden of her failure as the daggers dug into her palm, through her palm, and into the soggy wood behind the flesh: holding her up for all to see as the final humiliation was put on her.

No one had answered her cries, her pleading, her pain, for the gods were in their heavens and, for them, all was right in the world.

She was not being killed. None of those who had been being crucified had shared that fate. She was being made to suffer, to be punished, for her failure of dealing with an enemy. As much as it pained the Emperor to see his true heir cast upon the cross for her failures, this only served to be her final lesson.

Revenge would be a powerful motivator, and the Special Task Force would return.

The sound of her palm's flesh being slice by the blade had deafened her as Zorzal's knights came up to her on a ladder in her unceasing cringing, her gasping for air, for breath, for relief.

The ringing pain in her head had only been matched by the piercing stabs of an all too poetic ring screwed into her scalp, mockingly.

Made from the vines of a rose bush, the stems of the flower that she had named her order after, Pina had been a princess fully, and her crown had been one of thorns.


	31. 2-11: The Lie

**_A/N:_** Howdy. Been a while, but, as you can see from the length of this chapter, for good reason. Anyway, a lot of reviews have come in that I'd have to respond to in a usual post, but the scope of that is just too long and I'll just pick, for this once, the most pressing review:

 _ **SSDConker**_ : Totally my mistake in referring to Wilbur as a Super Sergeant, I thought, in my head, for some reason that was a a rank for the longest time and none of my beta readers caught it. Thanks for calling that above all. I'll fix that up real soon in the rewrite before the Summer is up.

 ** _Pina's punishment, Hamilton, the Luger_** : Waifuismylaifu actually summed up my reasoning for Pina's punishment rather well here: it's the natural conclusion. She is the Benedict Arnold of the Empire now matter how you look about it. She dealt with the enemy behind the back of the Empire, regardless of her intentions, and that, to me, makes her a traitor by definition. This, especially, since the Senate wasn't blown up. But her specific punishment, the Emperor wanted it, but not for her to die as I explain somewhat in this chapter.

Hamilton? She died rightly in her mind. As I said Pina was a traitor and she drew on her. I don't think there's much more that I have to say here. Pina reacted in a panic and she picked up a gun and found her ticket to hell. An unfortunate consequence of how all encompassing a weapon is. It does not differentiate between friend and foe. It is up to the user and their prowess with that weapon to decide it.

The Luger. I chose the Luger over, say, Masterson's SAA for Pina to recover because A.) The Luger is a piece of German engineering, and thus, far beyond anything the Empire can replicate. B.) It is not a traditional firearm in general. also C.) the round that it fires is the 9mm Parabellum. The name of the round and its importance to firearm manufacturing is not to be understated.

This doesn't mean that the Empire will be fielding Lugers and such however. It just means that they have something in their hand that the Special Task Force uses and, as Lelei understands, they understand its not magic. It's just a tool.

 ** _MrLZRS_** : If this Fic wasn't divisive I don't think I would've wrote it write. So yeah, this sorta reaction I wanted, and I don't mind it.

 _ **In general**_ : This chapter is about 44k words, or, underneath 11 font typing in MSWord, 100 pages on the dot. Take your time, skim, do what you do, but it's dense, and if you do the tragic thing and skip this over then I'll just tell you that next chapter we'll be out hunting that dragon. Sorry I didn't get to everyone in the reviews, you're welcome to come to me in PMs, I probably should've broken up this chapter into two parts. If you see anything glaringly bad do leave it in a review and I'll edit tomorrowish.

Again I thank you for reading this story for this long and bearing with me, drawing up your own thoughts and cracking the fact that it's not a Fix Fic (it never was), but rather a deconstruction of many things related to American interventionism and GATE as a series.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-11**_

 ** _Posted on 6/8/16_**

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 54**_

 _ **Falmart – Sadera Hill**_

* * *

"This damned war has made bastards of us all, Chandler."

"War makes all sorts of strange occurrences, general. As is why you're walking with some of the very people you tried to conquest twenty years ago."

The general in question had his hair sandblasted and greyed: the eagle faced general from the night after the Americans and the Japanese came and gone. His clothing had been a Legionnaire's armor, a distinctive red cape and cloth of the Imperial soldiers following in his wake. Talking to him had been a six foot man, his face rough, but not old: a face that had dipped in war and was able to pull out.

Perhaps a visage of what Captain Emerson would've liked to be at the end of it.

Senator Cornelius Chandler had hailed from beyond the Empire, but came to it as an envoy for his people. One of the few states that had been taken into the Empire, not by conquest, but peacefully. Still Chandler had joined the Imperial Legions during the Bunny Warrior conquests and the original conquest of the Elbe Fiefdom, so he had known war. Known war and practiced enough to respect them, although not to give his name to the saints and deities of war.

It was for that reason he had worn a halberd over his back and white dress and knew war as Rory did.

What Pina had been victim to had only been the fear of war he knew. The witch hunt, the trial, the need to blame one of their own for the failures of the whole. The first casualties of war had often been on the home front, and for all intents and purposes Arnus Hill had been home.

His short brown hair had flowed in the early morning breeze on the empty steps of the Imperial Capital: before them the dozen or so crosses erected for the Rose Order.

"I've ssssseen worsssse." Seyton and Samnu had been with Chandler, besides the General and his own guard as the approached the steps where the crosses were erected.

"Mmm." Chandler had agreed, pointing up at the forms cast upon those crosses. "I read some of Pina's notes. Apparently one of the apostles on the other side were put up like this. He died and was ascended to god hood."

"Do they actually have apostles on the otherside?" the general had asked.

"There's a line between story and reality over there, and I doubt Pina understands that… seriously doubt that only two usages of a weapon could force an enemy to surrender."

They talked in front of the crosses, the crows out and circling them, and by corollary, the capital building. Waiting for them all to die.

Samnu had sniffed the air in front of them, the bodies on the crosses still, but mostly alive. "They're sssssstronger than they look."

"Indeed." Chandler nodded as he had wiped a hand gesture over the twenty or so crosses. More of the Rose Order who the Senate had deemed as traitors on some measure had been brought up as well.

It'd been several days since Pina had been first hoisted up. The first few hours she had still been talking, pleading, arguing her case and how she dealt with the Americans and the Japanese in the name of peace between all (that is after she chewed through her gag). No one had listened, and soon enough the world and the weather had driven into her mind by the digging of the crown of thorns on her head as the dying groans of her knights around her had slowly fettered out.

Chandler's guards had gone to the crosses, at least three men each, and started loosening the foundations as they stood ready to ease the wooden contraptions slowly down.

The senator had personally oversaw Pina with the sand haired general, Seyton and Samnu keeping watch with several of the general's soldiers, machetes on their hips left for them by Blackburn.

And one by one those that lived and died were revealed as the wood had hit the ground and the bindings were mercifully pulled off. "Pliney Ro Delino is dead."

"Abaxah's gone."

"Doe Citra's still breathing."

The talk was purely business, emotionless and cold as those that were more coherent groaned as they were put on stretchers: water and blankets offered by those still alive. For others simple tokens of respect were given as helmets went off and the blankets that came to cover them were instead used ultimately: shielding their pained faces.

At least they still had a face as Hamilton's death had proved testament to. They were perhaps, in some way, lucky. Lucky enough to not see the Empire today. To not see the bleak future.

The main cross, the one with the biggest carrier, had finally been hoisted down carefully to the steps of the Capital.

The bloodied form of an Imperial Princess was on it, her eyes closed, silence deafening.

The general had wiped his hands across his chin as she was lowered before them. "I knew her mother."

"Did you?" Chandler had asked plainly.

"She was in my bed a few times before she found her way to the Emperor. Pina's apple isn't too far from her tree or his."

"What was her name?"

The general shrugged. _"I don't know."_

Her body was still as it was, still the same as when it had been up there. Armor dragging her down, hair messy, bloody, unkempt. Bags beneath her eyes and dried drool from the corner of her lips. Her hands were curled like a crab's, fingers touching the blades that kept them pinned to wood. Dented, destroyed, she finally looked like a soldier she wanted to be. But how so did it hurt.

She was beaten as she was dragged out, by senators and by soldiers who thought that she deserved worse than what the Empire gave her. However it was Tyuule's decision that stayed them all and justified broken bones.

She would feel the pain that her brother felt. She would understand what it was like to feel the Special Task Force's meaner end.

There was never any doubt though.

She was too strong, too good for the fate that had befallen some of her knights.

Chandler had put two fingers to her neck for a pulse. It was that had awoken her, her eyes opening just barely a sliver.

"Zorzal listens too much to that damned bunny whore." The general had made note of what had been done exactly to Pina: the daggers through her hands had been from daggers of the Rose Order. "Then again he's been fading in and out of consciousness for the last few days."

Pina Co Lada had been alive. Just barely. Just enough for her dried and bloodied lips to flutter faintly, as if mouthing words, her breathing becoming hard and ragged.

The corner of her mouth had moved, but all that came out was just raspy breathing. The blood pooled in her palms, long since dried, had made a cracking sound when her hand had moved.

"General, sssssenator, if I may?" Seyton had appeared behind the two Imperials as they kneeled next to the cross, the body, the rope around Pina's ankles undone. Chandler had nodded as the general nervously backed off, seeing Seyton run one of his fingers along the insides of his teeth before tracing the liquid drawn from his mouth around Pina's palm wounds.

The general had nodded as he understood what that was. "The lizards of the deserts often have tertiary venomous abilities when needed. The Rurudo people often traded for the poison excrement in exchange with the lizard tribes."

"It alssso helpsss stop customerssss who won't pay for sssservicccessss." Samnu had been more than revealing of her usage of it, her tail drawing across the ground along with the machete. Blackburn hadn't been exactly sure why, at the last minute, a shipment of machetes he had usually seen in use by Jason Voorhees was slid into the manifest for the PX. Whatever the case was it was there, and the twin lizards had taken their pick from it for self-defense.

It was the items they went immediately after when this curious senator and a general had come to Bessa Estate asking for them, for safety. In the boredom and tenseness after the earthquake and having to hold up, they had left Akusho for the secret embassy that Major Higaki and RCT1 had set up with the Navy Seabees.

The duo of Imperials had been there in the senate chambers when it all came down.

Pina's notes had all been taken and copied a hundred times over by each of the senators and generals by their aides, and soon enough the Entire higher echelon of the Empire had learned of the powers that survived against the superpowers that now invaded them.

Those notes were kept among the higher sanctum and the senators that were there. What was once Pina's secret had been the Empire's leadership's now.

What they learned was the tale of a forsaken people had brought down the strongest nation of all with nothing more than vests filled with crude explosives and boxcutters.

There are many ways to fall, that Pina had learned most recently as her eyes had clicked open as she seized, feeling the pain of poison. She had brought her arms up in a jerk, bringing her hands and daggers up with her as she sat upright, screaming. Neither the general nor the senator had flinched, however the two lizards had shrieked as Pina's scream rung out again throughout Sadera Hill.

Like glass, shifting in a gritty sand.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" the general said softly, hidden by her agony. This wasn't the first time he had seen a person in pain before him. He had seen Pina as only another soldier at this point as she shook the cross, Chandler putting his strong arms on her shoulders and pushing Pina down.

"Hold on there princess!" his urgency had hardly put a stamper on Pina's agony, however her screaming had brought some of the remaining Rose Order back to life, worried for their leader.

The two daggers had gone out all at once, her hands stuck in the claw as her arms instinctively drew themselves closer to her body. The daggers clattered onto the ground, only to be picked up by Konradi.

"Come on legionnaires, let's finish our affairs here!" he yelled out.

"Aye!"

The crosses had all fallen to the ground as those that had been borne on them were taken off and, mercifully, taken care of on stretchers, dead or alive, better or worse.

"You talk to the emperor himself to allow this?" the general had been a busy man, no doubt, having been the man who had personally disavowed Pina's command leadership in the senate before the killing had started.

Chandler had nodded as he had carried Pina's panicked form up into his arms, the woman fading out of consciousness as the legionnaires finished up. The crosses and all that they meant were left behind, broken, shattered, at the base of the Imperial Capital.

Some might ask the question of where those that had been cast on them had gone, but the Emperor simply would say that the show was over and their real punishment had begun.

"We're going to get you out of here princess." And so they carried her, down the steps, down into the city, down into the depths of the slums into the domain of the devil. They bore all the survivors on their backs, Imperial Legionnaires and Imperial citizens who had done the deal with a devil.

Hooded men and women, human or not, had appeared on the rooftops above them in vigil: images of those that had made them. The protection had been guaranteed by the silver, broad, blades that they all held at their hips.

An enemy to the Empire had truly appeared in Akusho. Not the Special Task Force itself, even if some had been there, but a cancerous growth: the result of the Special Task Force interacting with the locals and promising a new world, disappearing into the dark of the house of demons.

Soon enough the blades were replaced with rifles and the uniforms underneath the cloaks became green. For Pina to disappear into the house of demons was perhaps horrifying, but those same onlookers had owned that house now. It meant it was truly the only place that she and her Rose Order could be safe.

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 55_**

 ** _Falmart – Akusho – The Devil's House_**

* * *

Second Lieutenant Kenzaki had been the team leader of RCT1. That arrangement had left him to be stranded in Akusho with the Naval Seabees, several civilian contractors who ran the PX in Akusho and the Embassy constructed in the Bessa Estate, and Major Higaki who had been commander of all the RCTs.

It didn't leave him happy, but then again he wasn't given the luxury of acting on his emotions. Today he was given the short straw of watching over Kay's house in Akusho, the Devil's House as the locals had known it as.

The concept of the Devil was existent, though not in name until Kay had come. He had lent his nickname to it in the name of Rory and Emroy by accident, and seeing as this house had been formerly of the cult of Emroy and Rory many had assumed that he was on the letter to become the devil once Rory had come and gone.

What that had meant to Kenzaki was that no one would really dare come attack this house or any of the properties that were attached to it for good reason.

Not until today of course when the only people who dared walk in here had come back with a compliment of Legionnaires and the bodies, alive and dead, of the much publicized and displayed Rose Order Knights.

His medic had been tending to the most important of those knights on the ground floor where a Corporal Lamareux and Sergeant Kurokawa had once treated the locals in exchange for samples. With him had been the two Imperials that led this entire new effort.

Senator Cornelius Chandler of the Aster Domain and the general who had spoken out against Pina rather distinctly when it all went down.

The Aster Domain had been a series of islands and shoreline along Southern Falmart. The senator had represented his people in the Empire and, given his relationship with the Empire, it was the cornerstone of the peaceful alternative to conquering a people.

The Aster Domain had fallen under the Empire peacefully through successful integration prior to the conquest of the Bunny Warriors, and indeed many Asterians, Chandler himself, had fought in that war with General Foulke and Zorzal. It was better to be with the Empire than against it, that was an eventuality that Chandler had convinced himself of, even if he had any capacity of knowledge of what the Special Task Force was capable of.

He wasn't a fan of needless death and, having taken Rory on as his patron saint, he lived by those words

The machine attached to Pina had been beeping constantly, and, to them, they didn't know what that meant as they watched the green line peak at constant intervals.

The medic had assured the both of them that it was her heart beat, and thus she was alive, even though in a state of unconsciousness.

"You two look awfully unoccupied for who you are." Lieutenant Kenzaki had risen his hand in a salute toward the general out of habit, taking another seat in front of Pina's bed. "Christ, she's young."

Pina's hands had been wrapped up in bandages, the sides of her mouth rubbed raw by the gag she had chewed through, dirt and grime and sweat having dug into her pores. Perhaps most telling of her wounds however were the red spot-like scars which covered her scalp: dug in from a crown of rose thornes. It was the final, ironic twist which Pina had to endure by her Empire for her treason.

That was the outward reasoning as to why she was given her dues. The inward reason had been only known to Emperor Molt himself, for he, in any other circumstances Chandler and the general had known, would've opposed a Bunny Warrior dictating the punishment of the Rose Order and their leader.

Chandler's weapon had been off to the side, well away from his own grasp Kenzaki had noticed. It was a starkly beautiful thing, inspired, but no less seemingly impractical. A demonstration would be in order to see if not only gothic lolitas could wield such weapons.

The senator had looked up. "I've been out of a job for the last few weeks, Kenzaki. Not ever since Kay and Zorzal started trying to divide the Senators up to the doves and hawks."

Kenzaki had known of Kay's mission in the Capital rather distinctly, he had been there as he ended it after all. "Kay and Princess Co Lada approached you?"

Chandler nodded. He wasn't old, but then again it was hard to be young after he had been through his life in the Empire. The idea of a young senator was as foreign as the Special Task Force. "The Princess first, then Zorzal, and then Kay… from those who were a part of the Doves Kay only came in if Pina wasn't able to make an argument good enough."

"Were you a dove?"

Chandler shook his head. "I don't play this game that Pina and Kay tried to go with, especially during war."

The general had noted. Pina had written a lot about the supposed Demon Lord of Akusho in her notes. "Heard that Kay, or rather, Captain Emerson, wanted to be a politician actually."

"With the way he does he would be a piss poor one." Chandler had crossed his arms looking over Pina again.

The general had held the daggers that had been through her palms in his own rather diligently. The Rose Order were always one to appreciate the aesthetics of the rose and the rubies that adorned some of their weapons. "I'm also on reserve, soldier."

Kenzaki had softly shook his head in some benign gesture. "I know what that's like."

"It's a dangerous feeling… I was actually given the opportunity to use my legions to go through the Gate, but I opted not to go with the generals that did."

Kenzaki was one of the first JSDF responders that Itami had signaled from the Imperial Palace, he had probably seen some of those generals and their forces first hand. "If I can ask, general, why didn't you go?"

The general held the dagger like a paintbrush before he had holstered them, Pina's blood still not entirely chipped off from the metal and grip. "I tire of sending my men on conquest, soldier… I wished that her highness here wasn't as eager to go to war as she once was."

Chandler had shook his head in the negative as Pina's thin breaths had just been barely enough to make her body rise and fall with the sheets. "She wasn't speaking of war in the senate, general."

He raised his hand in return dismissively. "I know, Chandler, but I remember her before this all. She always wanted her Order to go to war." And the results had been at all of the feet of the men.

The entire Devil's House had turned into a ward for the living and the almost dead. Many of them that had been on the borderline had been brought to stable in short order, however not all of them could be saved. Some had pikes through their sides by those who dared punish them more, some suffered arrows and sticks that broke their skin and bones. The punching bag of the Empire was, for the horror of many, their daughters.

However it was a point that the Emperor had made: no one was saved from the crime of treason, even with the best intentions.

"This isn't all of them." Kenzaki had motioned back at the twenty or so beds that had filled up. Despite the bleeding, the wounds, the gore of women who suffered their indignities a thousand times over for their empire, it smelled distinctly sterile. "Around six hundred, right?"

"More or less, some honorary, some not." the general had explained. "Rest are being brought into questioning by, well, my men."

"Are they really?" Kenzaki had peered through the coy suggestion of the general.

"I have a… connection to the Rose Order. I didn't want to see Pina harmed or her order. So no, I'm just having them hidden or relocated at the moment."

"A connection?" Kenzaki leaned in.

"Before my campaign over the Western Deserts I was considered a lesser general by the Empire, and those who wanted to experience war at the surface were often sent my way as officers." There was contempt in his voice, but it was all in the past and past tense at that point.

The Rose Order was often seen as Pina's pet project, a club for the more dramatic children of the Empire's higher class. Headed under Grey it was mostly just that, even with his regulation and actual training, for in the end Pina and her people were great fighters, but to fight and to wage war were two different things.

Those who wanted to become warriors came to this general at the insistence of their parents. In the end however it all turned out okay, for they got their warrior experience and the general found a cadre of dependable officers for his field army.

"How many?"

The general had smiled at Kenzaki warmly. "Forgive my silence, but you must understand I can't tell you that. We are technically at war, aren't we?"

Kenzaki had laughed as he sucked from his hydration straw. "Some war general."

"Unfortunately."

Out of his kit he had drawn two, appropriately, Kit-Kat chocolate bars for the two rather weary men. "Look, I can't get a garden party, but here. Thanks for reaching out, really."

Chandler and the general had approached the Devil's House with aligned goals, and, perhaps, if they were the first to contact the Special Task Force as Pina did, they would've been better at it.

They wanted peace, they had actual power, not the power masquerading as influence that Pina wielded, and they knew war. Major Higaki had seen it fit that they be kept in the fold, especially seeing as their main contact in the Special Region had been made and was cast up onto a cross with her order.

"What are these?"

"Yinglin Luna Evinus, a Rose Order Knight that is currently back at Arnus, says that you two would like this."

Chandler's eyes had sparked up. "Oh right, there are more back at Italica that were originally with Pina on her assignment." he had taken the shiny wrapped bar questioning its nature, the general also taking it gently.

"Bozes Co Palesti hasn't been seen ever since Kay had come, and Grey left earlier in the month. We know that there's around twenty with her and generally the evidence of where they are is not helpful to the innocence of the Rose Order… what is this?"

Kenzaki made the ripping motion with his hands in thin air. "Tear it open, it's just a container for what's inside."

"Ah." the general was rather rough with his opening, breaking the contents within, but Chandler had been moreso careful as the ridged bars of chocolate and wafer appeared in their hand. "Is this another attempt at making something so benign to you seem heavenly to us?"

Kenzaki had tapped his knuckles against his chair, somewhat guilty. "I'm just giving you a treat. Even in my country we do not have the plant which produces the ingredients for this."

Chandler had sniffed at it once before looking down at the princess still in obvious plight. "Seems rather wrong to be partaking in a treat when before her in this condition."

"She doesn't like it."

"What?"

Kenzaki shrugged. "Kay says she prefers vanilla and a flavor called "maple" when it comes to candy. No harm in my opinion."

The general had also sniffed at the bar of chocolate before discovering some of it had melted onto his fingertips, he was annoyed as he had finally bit the bullet and opened his mouth to it. "Why would Kay ever know her tastes like that?"

The taste that flooded his senses suggested he should've left Pina to die after denying it.

"That's incredible." he hadn't even bit all the way through before stating, easily devouring his bars before Chandler offered his.

"I don't eat when I'm stressed anyway, lieutenant, but thank you."

"Well, next time the Corridor PX is able to send down a shipment, I'll see if I can't find something for you."

That name of the location had gotten the general out of his culinary discovery as he had hurriedly downed the candy. That being said Kenzaki couldn't take a general seriously when he was sucking the chocolate off his fingers. "The Corridor… yes, been trying to put spies into that damned place ever since Italica fell, but it keeps going dark."

The reason being it was too nice to leave. Not that any of the men had known that.

"I guess we've been doing a good job weeding out informants… minus Bozes of course, she was feeding Pina tons of info."

"Ah yes, Noruma's daughter."

"Panache was down there too."

"The Kalgi?"

"That and a hundred other families at this point. I envy the Igloos at this point, he's the only one that's died with honor at this point… hell, even Hamilton is under investigation at this point."

Kenzaki hadn't felt much remorse for the Rose Order. He didn't have what Itami had and how he had complicated his life with them. He was a soldier now, he told himself, soldiers don't get into the drama of relationships that inherently tied into a political world.

She was an enemy turned ally, and her own kind had turned against her. Playing stupid games results in stupid rewards of course.

In Asian cultures there had been a distinct tone of "it's either us, or them."

It was the same reason some of the JSDF had spoke of Blackburn poorly. The man was Chinese after all. No more than a dog eating, dirt licking degenerate of a person his blood.

For Pina, Kenzaki felt, there was something to it as to why he had the urge to spit at her face. She was a traitor to her people, and there was no honor in that. He was Japanese and that meant, even past the development of the modern world and society, he was deeply rooted with the idea of honor.

Moreso than any American, at least.

"I'll leave you two to it." he raised up and away with his cloak. The Devil's house was busy and it was business as usual: men from the other world bumping shoulders with locals as Akusho was alive with their influence.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 62**_

Falmart – Akusho – The Devil's House _ **  
**_

* * *

It was around a week before Pina had woken up again, fully. She wasn't in a coma, just exhausted, her mind sacrificing itself to keep her sane, to keep her still until a time when she was ready to face reality again.

She had woken up in the middle of the night when no one was watching, and when she woke up she thought she was in hell: Kay's house. Her knees were weak, arms heavy, eyes barely able to make out the bodies of her order.

She woke up as men of action do: with a snap that had made her breath leave her lungs, depriving her of the scream that originated in her dreams.

In the dark of knight for a good ten or so minutes she had quietly spoke into the tired ears of her precious knights, those conscious, and those unconscious, they heard her. Whether or not they listened was another thing, but of all things they understood that night Pina had loved them all dearly. She remembered their names, remembered how they all followed this idea of her order to here.

She was the foot of one of their beds when Samnu and Seyton found her, leading her back to her bed as the senator and the general came down to see her with Major Higaki.

All the major had told her was that she was safe for now and that her people were in good hands. They would talk in the morning, but no sleep would come over her as she was in the presence of Imperials who didn't want her dead.

She could barely move her fingers through the bandages they had and her arms had ached like hell, but her fingertips were still exposed as she felt the bloody divets in her head where thorns had dug.

"Didn't your parents ever tell you not to pick at anything? The general had pointed out to her as her fingernails began to do just that, she had put her hands down as she had lightly waved to the two lizards. She knew them as friends at this point.

A friend of Kay was a friend of hers.

"It's nice to sssssee you awake, princcccesssss." the twin snakes had given their dues as they left. They hadn't been night people, given their biology, making their leave to their bunks downstairs with the rest of the locals who had joined the ranks of the Special Task Force in Akusho.

She also very much recognized Senator Chandler, but her gaze had focused on the general before her. Why was he here?

"What is your name, general? Pina croaked out, her first words to him as she saw a new JSDF guard off in the corner, watching them.

The general had taken off his silver helmet. "I am the commander of the Western Explorers Legion, General Konradi."

A Rurudo. A nomad turned general; someone who understood what outside the Empire truly was and what it was like to lead men outside those borders. Wherein Zorzal and Foulke went east, he had gone west first: expanding Imperial influence over the deserts of an uncivilized world.

"Konradi… Yes, I heard about you. Many of your top commanders are from the Rose Order." there was comfort in her voice, hearing from a man who had taken many of her knights as his own.

"To which I am indebted to your leadership, Princess Co Lada, and why I stand behind you." was his simple answer. His only answer. When it came to backing horses at the races he had picked the one which ran fastest under the changing conditions, and Pina had been the only one using those conditions to her advantage.

"Where are they?" her pleading question.

He had motioned out of the building, toward the west. "All of my knights from your order are at a location west of here, I believe the hometown of Kay's lizard friends as well." he had glanced over his shoulder as he caught a glimpse of one of their tails before they disappeared upstairs.

She held her hand to her head, only to feel the grit of the bandages on her sensitive skin. "Oh thank the gods."

Her mind was still light, and there was a pain hovering over her head, unending, unceasing. And yet she was a woman on a mission, the covers once again put off of her as she sat upright, only for her arms to give out half way and feel like a thousand tons, pulling her back down to a slouch.

"Easy there. The doctors told me that you shouldn't be moving from this bed at all." Chandler had pointed back to her pillow. Not that it mattered.

"Please, I need to get back to Sadera Hill, there are so many things to do if-"

"This Empire is to be preserved?" Konradi had come out swinging. Not with his words at least. It was hers. All of her notes had been expressly written in how to conserve the Empire in the fact of the modern world. From peace, to war, to anything in between. She hoped her dream of Empire would not die if she said what she needed to say, played how she wanted to play.

Every dream has its waking moment however.

The dream of Empire had faltered in the same way Pina had as she defiantly tried to move her hands, her arms, and feel the ache of her crime.

"Why are you here?" she muttered, trying to feel her palms underneath the bandages.

Chandler had looked up darkly, leaning back in his chair, his halberd at his feet. "In war you always side with the victor. It's why I gave up my people the way I did all those years ago." the Asterian had ground through his teeth. As a senator he represented his people in the Empire. It was what he doing now.

"And in war you cannot stick to old ways of fighting, especially when fighting against the new." Konradi had stated as fact.

"That is defeatist talk."

"You had a treaty of pacification written with _**their**_ ink, princess." the general scolded.

The senator followed. "And here we are, talking behind the backs of the Emperor in their house, under their watch."

At least they had their language to hide under as that night became ultimately sleepless, and they spoke of where the browning grass had stood.

"Why did the emperor let me go?" she asked, scared of the answer.

Konradi had clasped his hands together tightly. He knew why. He was ordered to set her free after all. "You have learned your lesson, and thus, you are held in reserve until the Emperor sees the events that you have put in motion to play out."

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

Falmart – Akusho – The Devil's House _ **  
**_

* * *

"Why'd you give them a hope to fight, Pina?"

A question asked by a general to the princess a few days later. A few days later and every single hour more and more would be happening in front of her:

RCT1 hadn't paid much attention to Pina, instead they would come in and out just like guard duty of the Imperial Praetorians, keeping watch of Akusho's inner sanctum that now made up Devil's House and the PX.

The locals donned in the cloaks of the Rangers had quickly been multiplying and coming through the houses to be assigned jobs, the NATO roses the symbol unifying them all on their fabric. The Seabees had used them a lot for construction work: clearing out the insides of abandoned buildings in Akusho and the tunnels underneath with the sewers.

Occasionally the civilian contractors from Japan would rear their heads after a shift at the PX across the street.

Rarer still were the warriors she had originally mistaken as Emerson's Rangers. But they wore a different flag: they were JSDF SFGs.

RCT1's medic had tended to her when he could, but she was stable, the rest of her knights were in much direr situations in terms of their health. Infections on their limbs, depravation from exposure to the elements in the mid of summer, also the general fact that they were crucified.

"Weren't you the one who called to strip me of my command?" Pina had shot back.

The general had rocked his head from side to side, all too admitting of the fact. "I stand by my decision, princess, but you haven't answered my question." he was a military man of rather still feet. Such stubbornness inherited from a life in the battlefield tended to have anyone keep their opinions rather steadfastly.

"All my life I've been used to telling the Senate what they want to hear, for my sake. And I wasn't lying when I said it: Parabellum."

"Prepare for war if you want peace… yeah, what you said was true, princess. Part of the old language… it was called Latin, wasn't it?"

"Incompatible with the local languages was why we had dropped it overtime, thousands of years ago."

"If I wanted peace, I would prepare for war. That's what I know now because of you. I've never really held a high opinion of war anyway. Or of the Empire for that matter." he curled his lips as he had brought his index finger up to his lips in a fist. A ring had been on it, a strand of blue hair pressed underneath the glass of it going around his finger.

He was a Rurudo by honor alone, lacking their distinct vivid hair coloring or pale skin. He was brought up by them, an orphan of the Empire brought into their group.

"One of the important figures of the Special Task Force…" Pina started slowly. "She is a Rurudo."

The Rurudo people were never treated fairly by the Empire with their roaming status, and it only was because Konradi looked more Imperial than Rurudo was he able to be where he was now.

"Is she?" the man faded out, remembering of another life lived by horseback and tent.

"Lelei La Lalena. She's training as a sorceress."

Konradi had smiled, amused, but proud of the girl, whoever she was. "Makes sense. Many of the Rurudo are magically inclined."

"She was with me for quite a bit, before I came back to the capital."

"Ah yes, with this, Arr-Cee-Tee I believe, correct?"

"Yes." Pina's eyes widened. "How do you know?"

"Chandler talks to the JSDF officer here more than I do. Evidently he's more comfortable talking to a politician than me. And what he has led on to me is that, well, your people are back Pina."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Akusho**_

* * *

To spill blood on holy ground, at least in the context of this God, was forbidden. Therefore it was a monument of peace in the chaos of Akusho. It was what the populace believed and therefore where the crime lords of Akusho had amalgamated for their meetings exactly on, by Special Task Force time standards, two in the afternoon every Sunday.

That was some of the information that Bessera had given up during his interrogation/beating by the Hitman leaders.

Another piece of that information was that the temple was a front and no one was let in unless they had business.

Presently, RCT1 and half of RCT3 had business as they donned the hoods of the Rangers and walked out in mid-day, their first movements back within Akusho after infiltrating back into the Capital earlier.

The hoods had meant something of the devil to Akusho now, even as the rest of the Capital struggled to put itself back together after the quake.

As it were RCT3 hadn't been the same RCT3 that had been formed at the beginning of the Special Task Force. It could've been argued that Hitman had been the same chipper selves as they always were, bar the three leaders of the unit, however RCT3 as a whole had changed, drastically.

They had become so different from the other RCTs, so different in how they moved, how they saw, how they fought with the people around them. There was a rigid stiffness that those who had gone to Italica first had now displayed. As one of RCT1 had put it, it was "something in their eyes."

Something in their eyes was all that people had seen of them under their hoods, balaclavas over their faces.

They walked with the shooter's gaunt, from Kurokawa to Pops, from Tomita to Kurata. They were the ones that cleared the way, parted the crowded Akusho's crowd as they made their way to before the temple grounds, RCT1 covering their rear.

The temple was a rather gothic affair, even if it had been of pristine white marble. It wasn't grandly tall, but it shone in the filth of Akusho. The very fact that it was not stained, a courtyard all to itself, was a testament to what it really was beneath itself.

Wherein worship was not allowed inside, worship was allowed outside, those dressed in the robes of this God, kneeling before the walls and throughout the courtyard in some benevolent humming.

It didn't surprise any of the JSDF when one of those hooded figures, some old, bumpy faced dwarf, approached them with open arms. "Ah! More conversions from the sect of Emroy?" he had asked in his Lingua Franca.

The dwarf hadn't even been half as tall as Shino but at least three times as wide. She didn't even look down on him as Pops had touched her shoulder, clearing everyone right of his to a several meter spread across their side of the courtyard, the same going for those that lingered on his left.

"Twenty something contacts?" Tomita had said into his microphone as he had flicked the safety off on his rifle.

"This the place?" Kurokawa had throated, her MP7 slowly being brought to her shoulder underneath her cloak.

The dwarf had stood on his toes, trying to, even as he was chest to chest with RCT3, get their attention. "Excuse me?" that strain on the dwarf's own cloak hadn't been kind to the hammer he had been hiding beneath it.

Kuribayashi had thumbed down the hammer on her 220 in its holster. "The damned god that this temple's for isn't even real."

"Well, how about you ask the dwarf in front of you about what god he's praying to, Sergeant Kuribayashi?"

The woman had agreed with a grunt, not even discarding her balaclava as she threw back her hood and looked down at the dwarf. Orange haired, older type, a fighter based on the scars on his face.

"You mind telling me what kind of God you got this temple for, dwarf?"

"Oh, it's a God in a far off land, and this is his covenant here in the Imperial Capital. Many go inside each day to find shelter, so far from home."

Shino cocked her hips as she opened her cloak. No trouble, the dwarf hadn't even known what a gun was. "I bet. But a name would be nice."

"This is a god for peace in our land! We've prayed to them for a thousand centuries and not a single war has-"

"A name."

"It is in a language that you wouldn't understand as-"

"Phonetically then."

"Phonetically?"

"Sound it out."

Like a hunter, playing with its prey.

"It's a name that only the higher priests can ever say! I swear!"

"Then can you introduce me to one of these priests? Perhaps you can lead me inside?"

Shino never looked away from this dwarf's face. Many would in the eventuality that was about to happen, just to spare themselves the imprint, but for her, she would revel in it.

The other robed figures had started hearing the commotion Shino was causing, only to see the line of hooded figures: the tell-tale sign of Kay's demons.

"I don't think that'd be necessary. You can pray outside these walls. I'm sure Kay has his own strict rules for his worship." The idea of Kay being an apostle was a popular one within Akusho as more and more of his followers seemingly appeared out of thin air. As the slaves of Akusho started thinning out, being turned into freedmen, many of them bought or snuck out by others who had broken their bonds, many of them turned to the "Rangers" of Kay.

Ever since the earthquake came and the Rose Order hoisted up on their crosses Akusho had been quarantined by the Imperial Legions, only those with official papers able to get in or out. Chandler and the general however, they had their business and the papers. In fact many of the legionnaires sealing off Akusho had been the general's.

It was a trick.

Akusho was being rebuilt faster than the rest of the capital all due in part to the advising of the US Navy Seabees, however the reason for this to the concerned Imperials who didn't know any better was that the slaves were being put to work extra-time.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Shino had smiled behind her balaclava. "I'll pray to the Demon Lord inside of those walls, dwarf."

" _I say you must leave these premises imm-"_ the dwarf had put aside his own cloak to show his knvies fully, a big hand going for one handle. He never was able to get it in time.

" _ **Cleared hot."**_ A voice had calmly ordered from the roof, a suppressed sniper shot punctuating his words. A feline "worshipper" had fallen to the dusted ground.

The criminal lords hadn't been stupid, they were the masters of their business after all, and because of that they had guard detail out on the roof that a particular squad of JSDF SFG had done away with with their own form of cloak and daggers.

How ironic they were doing as the Rangers had done with Bessera… That was what had passed by Kurokawa's mind as she had rose her rifle from behind her cloak, the suppressor on it reaching out to point at another hooded figure in front of them.

RCT1 had even been spared the duty of being up front, they staying glued to their positions at the trail, looking backwards, covering their six.

Kuribayashi had unhooked the pistol in her holster and brought it up, the barrel catching at her cloak at the hip. The fabric did little to stop the sound or the shot of two nine millimeter rounds into the dwarf's chin, the blood and bone chipping as his wide body crumbled to the ground, a hole left in her cloak as the gunfire started its rapture.

The cruel efficiency of a squad that had done this too many times before had been revealed as RCT3 opened fire before this church, the followers before it barely having time to comprehend Kuribayashi's gunshots and the bodies falling to the ground before they were dead.

Without pause they had swept their muzzles across the grounds as they all took their preferred shooting stances, Kurata going on both of his knees in a snap and sitting on his feet, Kuribayashi simply holding her rifle at her hip as Kurokawa and Pops had put their thumbs over the bore and made targets in their mind. Tomita had been snappier in his fire, transitioning from one to another at break neck pace.

To the SFG members looking down on them, they had saved their ammo as they cleaned their knives from the dead archers and other watchmen they had dealt with on the rooftops skirting the courtyard's edge. RCT3 was enough as one by one the robes had fallen to the ground, concealing the dead in turn.

"Fucking hell." the SFG Operator with the callsign Saber had cut his mic off as he personally spited RCT3. "God damn Rangers been teaching them this shit."

Kuribayashi had returned to her rifle as RCT3 emptied their magazine. Each shot had been deliberate. Not a spray. Semi-automatic only and yet all at once it seemed the entire field in front of them fell.

To those looking from the outside in, the cruelty of military efficiency was displayed. Not a person left standing. To those that didn't know that all the bystanders outside the church was the guard of the crime lords during their meeting, it might've seem wrong and abhorrent.

Maybe twenty, thirty seconds was all it took for the first go. Not a person left standing if they hadn't taken the right.

As the operators looked down they saw the distinct move of Pop's right hand flat to his forehead, then pointing to the bodies on the floor before moving that hand again out in almost a slap against the air toward the church only to make a square with his fingers in the air and then, finally, a swooping gesture with his arm.

The operator, call sign Archer, had chuckled, interpreting the hand signals: Watch the bodies, move to the church, entry point the door.

Even the operators didn't mind yelling out orders and alerts in firefights here, the enemy didn't understand the language they used, however RCT3 had been, somehow, beaten into simply speaking the language of signal and hand. Just as the Rangers did in battle.

They showed that same boot strap mentality now.

RCT3 reloaded as RCT1 had moved up, still looking over their backs, tapping their shoulders verifying they were still there.

With that affirmation RCT3 had moved forward among the first bodies, Kuribayashi jumping over the body of the dwarf as his white robe was stained red by the pool he (or depending how you looked at it, she) made.

It wasn't silent, but it was a comfortable silence that only the people still standing in a firefight could appreciate: the choking, the wheezing, the final groans of pain as life fettered out. It meant a job well done, or, at least, an engagement kicked off favorably.

In front of Kurata a slumped form of a medusa had been writhing, its body turning over only to face him. For a second, and only for a second, he thought of the maids back at Italica, he thought of Aurea, friend of his dear Persia.

Just for a second though as that medusa raised her hand up, whether in fear, in agony, or in aggression, it didn't matter as she was too far gone and Kurata brought his rifle up in a snap and squeezed two rounds off.

The same story playing out a handful of times as RCT3 slowly culled the killing field, their boots once again stepping in the red of well channeled blood through the cut of the curb.

Only two of the operators had been covering from the roof at that side, the rest covering the backdoor of the church as suddenly gunfire from that side erupted. More screams, more breaking, only to silence out.

"Caster here. HVT designate the Chink, taken out." one of the bosses had tried to run, more specifically the four armed beast man who owned the horse stables throughout Akusho and the Capital. Broke the knees of those who never returned the horses as they were trampled on by his steed to death. His stable hands were slaves. It was a shame he died, Archer had thought for but a second. It was a shame he died separately from the rest of the crime lords.

The actual callsign for that particular HVT had been the "The Chinese", but there was no harm lost when no one who would say anything about the slur.

Maybe it was a twitch made in her mind, but as RCT3 stacked against those white walls, the dust of their cloaks imprinting on the stone, Kuribayashi had fallen behind as she saw a body move underneath the robes. It didn't scare her that she had walked over with her bayonet already mounted and pig stuck the corpse. It didn't scare her that a great, painful groan erupted from a face that was hidden, already facing the dirt, only to be stamped out by her.

Pops, Kurata, and Kurokawa had ignored this all. All they wanted her to do was stack up. They didn't care anymore for her bloodlust, didn't care that something that people called cowardice in her desire for war and battle was instead not a shield for her. It was instead her courage.

The SFGs were on overwatch duty as they kept on looking at the Men in Green stack up against those church door, their forms hunched as Kuribayashi finally stacked up, only to move her hands over the rim of the door and its center before tugging once. The door didn't give.

Kurata in trail position had come around Pops and Kurokawa with a breaching charge, Tomita stacking behind Kuribayashi as the explosive was looped around the handle and primed.

They had all backed off like the wave of a tsunami, the five seconds between prime and bang flying by like years before the wood shattered inward, Shino flicking the lever of the flashbang in her hand away as it went through the splinter storm.

The light of the sun had seemingly burst from the cylindrical object as the screams and groans of blinded occupiers rang out after the shockwave, RCT3 sliding in fast, rifles up, spreading themselves out against the back wall as they entered.

" _ **On the ground! Now!"**_ Tomita and Kurokawa had both shouted. Their voices carried the most bite as the strobe lights on their rifles went on, those that tried to look at them blinded as they kept shouting their orders again and again.

One of the hooded figures still stood with a sword, still tried to make his way through the various benches of the congregation. It was an excuse enough for Kuribayashi to open up with one or two shots, the body crumpling onto benches, breaking their order.

The building wasn't empty, even without the guards.

On the other side of the room had been the open backdoor, bodies already laying dead on the other side courtesy of the SFG. If the building was also a secret meeting spot for the crime lords, then the building was an excellent place to hold their wares.

And the wares had been held, tried to benches, chained to the walls, gagged, and blind folded, and whipped, and beaten to make the outside of those walls the only thing that seemed pure.

If those walls could talk they would pay testament to what horrors and crime had taken place in there, but, the runner up had been if those chained to those walls, naked and beaten, were able to speak.

Not now however, seeing them was enough for RCT3 as their eyes adjusted and saw the walls move with bodies, male, female, human and beast. This was where the more troublesome were taken to be made into slaves.

The silence did not persist as, at the "alter", the operators now dead, had laid and been bound a man: he alone had his mouth able to scream for help. Half of his mouth at least. It was in the middle of being bound by wire.

"RCT1, coming in." RCT3 had moved along the walls still, their backs to those chained up against it, their sights forward as those that listened laid on the ground.

The other RCT1 had moved in half of its people into the church, zip ties at the ready as RCT3 covered them, gradually circling the main lobby before getting to the basement door. The land lord that Bannon had bought the property the Special Task Force owned now had been forthcoming with information.

Kenzaki had pointed out to the man on the altar as he looked over to RCT3, already disappeared into the lower levels of the church. To think he had played clean up crew to the unit led by the slacker Itami… it was humiliating, but he couldn't' argue with results, not as the blood of a man killed started to spill out on glass floors and the slaves held in that building began to be ungagged by RCT1, only to scream in their Lingua Franca.

They all screamed together, in one, unknowable sound that echoed throughout those high halls, barely hiding the sound of gunfire beneath their feet as RCT3 gutted the machine from the inside out.

Kurata had pushed forward with his KSG, blowing out the locks on doors as Kuribayashi breached each and every one with a flash grenade and her rifle. The repetition she was allowed had refined her art as the rest simply pushed forward to an underground cellar, extravagantly made out to be an atrium of sorts.

The door to the walkway over that atrium had been approached by Tomita, but not before it was opened by a man trying to escape. Tomita wouldn't have any of it as his boot came out and sent him back: falling past the walkway only to fall on the table beneath where the crime lords were meeting that day.

"Nobody move!" he yelled, pointing his rifle down on the round table, a man with a broken back served on a platter before broke wine glasses and the notable criminal lords of Akusho.

A man had stepped up from the table and tried to dash away, but Tomita had been quick on the trigger in a rather liberal spray: a line of gunfire painting across his armored chest rather grisly as his body fell flat in a tumble, the rest of RCT3 coming in behind him on the walkway over the table and spreading out for full coverage.

"Archer to RCT3. Do we have a positive ID on targets?"

The Russian. The Kazakh. The Afghani… After Emerson had labeled Bessera as "The Italian" the naming scheme had worked for high value individuals in Akusho.

"Stand by." Pops had throated, his rifle still held down on them.

The tiger beast had been half way frozen between pushing his chair out and pushing himself away from the table, and he had kept still. Proportionally he had a big mouth, and he used it to shoot back the only way he could.

"Did Kay send you?! Where is he?!" he demanded, teeth shown, his orange and white fur standing on end as his spilled wine slipped between his paws. "If his people tend to do Akusho such a disservice I expect him to have the decency to show his face!"

They were all dressed contrary to the place they lived in: clean, decadent, even as downtrodden maids and slaves attended to them. They were caught with their pants down, discussing whatever crime lords did.

"Tyber Devuka, are you present?" it was the name of the tiger Tomita had asked for.

"Who wants to know?!"

The man dying on the table had groaned as his hand had gone to a rather prominent wooden contraption on his belt, however his entire body had jerked once before falling limp. Two shots from Kuribayashi had settled that.

"Tyber Devuka! Are you present?!"

"Yes! Now what do you wa-"

"Yondahlo!" the goblin.

"Yeah. I'm here." One by one as they were called out RCT3 had put their sights over them to confirm they had a shot.

"Faro Avencii?!" An Imperial.

"What?!"

Pops had answered back to Archer. "All HVTs present."

"Roger. Deal with it RCT3."

" _ **Answer me!**_ " the tiger's yelling had devolved into a roar as frightening as any king of the savannah. "Are you here to kill us?! Send this damned district spiraling out of control without our guidance?!"

"If you cooperate nothing will happen to you!" Pops had shouted down through his balaclava. "You will be held responsible for your crimes over the people of Akusho fairly!"

"Lies!" the goblin spoke out. "You killed Bessera! Just as the Son of Lies did to him!"

Kuribayashi had chuckled. He was referring to Masterson she realized.

"We won't _**harm**_ you if we don't need to!" Tomita had shouted back.

The tiger spoke out, his chest pumped, his legs standing. If he was going to die he was going to die upright. "At least that woman there," he pointed up at Kuribayashi, her balaclava never put back on as her light brown hair dusted in front of her eyes, her face visible and for all to see. "She is _**honorable**_ enough to not hide from this all behind a mask!"

She had shot back, her throat boiling. "That's not what Kay tells me."

"And what did the American say?" Akusho had known what Kay was beyond a dark elf: he was an American. What an American had meant however was lost on them. Still, it was what Kay was and, unsurprisingly, many had thought that there was something to it.

Kuribayashi stumbled in her mind, her rifle, for but a second, lowered. Kurokawa had looked over to her comrade as, more or less, they were at their mission objectives. What came next was up to their interpretation and the situation that had come about.

Pops had lowered his rifle as he used his thumb to hold down his radio, about to echo to RCT1 for more zipties.

Tomita alone couldn't handle them all those below had thought. It was an opportunity worth taking as the lion went for the belt of the man on the table. On that belt had been a handheld crossbow. Being quick on the draw was something RCT3 had severely underestimated as the rest of the criminal lords followed suit with whatever they could get their hands on.

The lion had aimed up at Pops, and his aim was true: dead center. The sound of the bow's line being broken and unleashed was a horrible thing as its bolt was sent up and into its target.

No sooner had the cataclysmic shock of return fire come was everything was dropped in every sense. Gunfire came, the question posed to Kuribayashi was out of consideration, and not a person would leave that atrium alive if they were not from RCT3.

It was the wording of the objective that made something like this fall within the lines.

The sound of gunfire in that underground atrium amongst the stone and crates was deafening, the sound of thunder made a hundred times across those who fired down.

As Pops wreathed on the ground, Kurokawa had forgotten who she was and didn't attend to him. She didn't, not when she lost herself like so many soldiers in war and held her trigger finger down, held the sight on one target, and let the forty rounds in her submachinegun tear up the body.

Pops didn't need the attention anyway. The armored plate in his carrier had saved him, the bolt deflecting harmlessly off of him as the force of it still let him fall back, his life having flashed before his eyes and all the regrets and mistakes that led him to gunning down people in a basement so far from home.

The goblin had tried to run, but his head had gone to the walls as Shino fired her burst into him, shattered wine glasses and their contents mixing with the red from their drinkers in a mindless show. There were merely servants down there: collateral damage of this outing, but they were not in the consideration as they were just more bodies, faceless victims of a war to secure Akusho.

It didn't stop until nothing left was moving. Nothing.

The mission order was in plain paper from Lieutenant Commander Blackburn: _**"**_ _The Italian is already being broken and being made into a figurehead._ _ **Pacify the rest."**_

For it to turn out like this was within acceptable boundaries for a dirty war.

As Pops had risen back up and leaned on the railing of that balcony, looking down on those that had died, he felt nothing. He felt nothing as he his old hand was held over his chest where a bolt would've pierce, his breath returning to him in heavy gags.

"Archer to RCT3. Situation report."

What was a grizzled military man like him but to answer, looking over those that remained: his soldiers. Yet in that moment he could not tell who was who except for Shino, and in her eyes had been that indifference as the barrel of her M4 smoked. She was fine.

"RCT3. Targets neutralized. Status green."

* * *

Falmart – Akusho – The Devil's House

* * *

When RCT3 had come back, they came back to a bustling house as usual, some of the Rose Order on their feet, if not in pain. The doctors, both Special Task Force and local, had been removing them from the house to the embassy, even as some had protested to stay by Pina again. Either for her safety or to make sure she did not sell the Empire out even further.

Of all the opinions the Rose Order had, they were as varied as the RC Team that had known her first in this world as they walked in and saw her again: damaged, beaten, but still Pina.

It was only then that they had discarded their balaclavas and helmets and shown their faces to her. They had returned, and she had rose and ran at them at the entrance before anyone could do anything.

A familiar face in a changed world: an opinion by both RCT3 and Pina as there was some elation about finding out the fate of one another.

Those that were there at the Capital that night had forced themselves up and forward, even Kuribayashi.

They remembered what Kay had done with her out of respect, and they held that respect too.

So they stood at arms, feet rigidly down as Pops had given RCT3's collective greeting: a nod, an understanding face.

"It's nice to see you alive, princess." the soft words from Kurokawa had been the first from RCT3. She brushed her hair back behind her ears, sticking to her face uncomfortably. "Even if it's like this."

The princess looked down at their boots, looking at the ever familiar red stains, as if the capital massacre had happened last night. As if…

"Where is Kay?"

Pops had winced. Tomita had muttered under his breath. _"Probably chasing down Bannon and Itami, right?"_

Kurata had also whispered back. _"Last I heard from Yanagida, orders were to leave them alone. So he's probably just on regular ops."_

"Where is Captain Emerson?" she asked again, more desperately, more needing.

Kurokawa had simply grabbed the princess's shoulder, taking her gloves off and grazing over her wounds, looking at what had been done to her herself. "Captain Emerson is currently deployed to an undisclosed location, you know, doing his job, princess."

"Then why are you here?" It was accusatory, and yet all that RCT3 did was avoid eye contact with the princess.

It was there job to be there, and what they had been doing was as plain as the footprints they left behind.

Pina had asked a question she knew an answer to however. They were there on the mission that they came to this Special Region to carry out. Diplomacy had many faces, and diplomacy under the gun was still diplomacy.

She saw it in their eyes, she saw who they were now because of what had happened at the Capital. In the eyes of Kurokawa, of Kuribayashi, of Tomita, they, in a flash as they turned away from her, they had blamed her for making them kill.

They had their excuse.

Pops had grunted once, his head tilting toward the stairs and the bunks upstairs, RCT3 moving past Pina slowly, if not respectfully with their silence. "It's been a long day, princess. We've traveled far. We just want to head back to our bunks again."

And yet Kurokawa had stayed as Pina had looked, in horror, as RCT3 took on that same dispassionate, tired gaze. The same one Emerson gave her.

Her head had twisted her turn, words failing her as they shuffled past. She felt like an object that had been used. An object that had failed its purpose to them. That same feeling had brought her knees to a wobble. As Kurokawa had felt her fear, she only squeezed her hands tighter, and they had run red anew under the bandages.

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 72_**

* * *

It was a few more days of recovery, both mental and physical, before Pina had some plan in her mind, calmed down from realizing RCT3 had been broken, but it was a plan she had already, now brought again to Higaki's horror.

"Kay, he did offer me this: He said to wait for America to fully establish relations with us. With America they can help us preserve our way of life."

A Seabee had sniffled his nose at Pina's comment. He was a construction man, not a rifleman. Still with the situation as it was he had a rifle in his lap all the same. It really didn't matter, that excuse didn't help his situation in a North Korean prison camp when they came storming through, taking as many Americans prisoner as they could. He'd been in this sorta thing before, which, perhaps, was why Blackburn had called most of his Seabees from the units that survived North Korea.

Twenty Seabees had been stuck in Akusho now when Blackburn had left, though they were in good company and in, relatively, good communication with Arnus Hill and Camp Kilgore.

It turned out at the end of it he was the ranking Seabee within Akusho, and by corollary, the ranking American.

RCT1, 3 and a JSDF Ranger team had been inside the Capital with them. Right now Archer had been standing guard over him and Higaki, if only because it was a formality, he being silent despite it all.

They had enough ammo anyway to last until then. Ammo was all that mattered. The food and water could've been OSP.

"Why do you persist with the American embassy plan, Princess Pina? The conflict which the Empire is engaged in is with Japan, and thus peace lies with directly communicating with us."

Higaki was a shrewd man, if not a good Major who was upended from his comfortable job as a part of Lieutenant General Hazama's cohort after Ginza. Perhaps it had told more about the rather pudgy, if not built man's disposition that he would've rather been stuck in Akusho than dealing with Itami's nonsense back at Italica and Arnus Hill.

"Which is the point. America is a neutral third party." She didn't believe it herself when she said neutral, but, all things considered, they were the closest to the definition in this conflict. She knew of the inner tensions of the Special Task Force.

"Gotta give us a reason to do it ma'am." the Seabee spoke in his Brooklyn English. "Diplomatic relations is the least of our problems according to the wire."

Chandler looked up at the Navy man. "Other problems?"

"On this side of the Gate and ours." he had put up two fingers as his thumb pointed downward at the floor. "One is the slave issue, we got Japanese fireteams freeing people all over the country side and god knows what's gonna happen. Two is the fact we still got some of our people in chains."

"But aren't you freeing slaves here in Akusho?" The Seabee nodded at Pina's observance.

"Random lottery for around two a day. Most of them think that they're being bought by us actually, so they stick around… not like they can go anywhere with Akusho being locked down."

"That explains all the people here with swords."

Konradi had looked up at the Seabee. "I believe Tetsuo told me their called maa-chet-tees?"

"Machetes." He corrected before looking at Chandler's all too familiar halberd. It wasn't as dark and malicious as Rory's, but there was clearly an influence. "We have our newly freed ones either providing security throughout Akusho with the leftover Ranger cloaks or working at the PXs or a few of our new businesses."

"New businesses? Like at the Corridor?" Pina had sat up against the wall her bed was against.

Major Higaki nodded from his seat, leaning back. "We provide the material, the people provide the initiative, your highness. Always been the Special Task Force's policy… in fact, last I heard the prostitutes we freed from here when Lieutenant Itami and Captain Emerson left are now serving as maids at a particular café I frequent run by a bunny woman."

Mizari had been well enough a leader to make the prostitutes that had been ferried out of Akusho during the earthquake come to Delilah and ask for work. Naturally the bunny woman and the angel had some heads to butt, but it was alright. It was preferable to her alternative method of making a living.

"Anyway, unless the slaves are found and returned, I doubt we'll do anything official without being… drastic."

"And what are the nature of the problems on your side?" Konradi asked, curiously. "Your side" being the other side of the Gate.

The Seabee shook his head as he looked at his watch. "Rumors I hear about your knowledge of the outside state of affairs true Pina?" he talked to the watch.

Pina had nodded with a small hum, affirming with some shame.

"China's been mobilizing some mechanized elements to north of the Vietnamese border in invasion posturing. The Enterprise's battle group is staying off of Taiwan. Russia also flew in a group of airborne infantry with a squadron of helicopters as well under the guise of training and cross-equipment familiarization."

"Like the 1979 war again." the major had observed. Vietnam and China never had an easy relationship, history had been testament to that. History had also been testament that Vietnam, no matter the year or the enemy, could repel. That was what Russia had been standing behind.

"Yes, the Vietnamese." Pina had recognized the nation, the people. She studied them. "For nearly a thousand years they have fought against foreign powers with nothing more than the dirt they live on and their blood and treasure."

Konradi had been clued in. He had been a particular type of general after all. He learned from the Bunny Warriors as opposed to simply fucking and fighting them. In that sense he had approved of Pina. She was doing the same. "I hear envy in your voice, your highness."

She had looked at her bandaged hands as she let the words bounce off of her.

"A city in America…" the Seabee had drifted off, uneasily. "El Paso, Texas. Some cartel members got caught transporting goods and a firefight broke out at a shopping mall a few days before I came here with Blackburn."

Higaki had raised an eyebrow. "How many dead?"

"Thirteen civilians, four law enforcement, and the five of them. Army was gearing up to respond before SWAT took care of them."

"That's more of a criminal than military in nature." Higaki observed, running his hand through his moustache once, pondering.

Seabee shrugged. "We're in Mexico, it's a war now, and anyone related to the Cartel is open game for military intervention."

It was Mexico's government that had first called for American intervention, but it had become a war on America's doorstep in short order: the War on Drugs fully realized if not following in the steps of another War on a noun.

"Another Vietnam War would be on our doorstep as well." Higaki tried to speak on the level.

"Least you got a sea in between you, all we got was Trump's crumbling wall and a bodies and bodies…"

Bodies. That word stuck out to Pina. She should've asked earlier she told herself upon the realization.

"Where's Hamilton's body?" The guilt was evident in her voice.

Konradi had remembered. It was his people that carried her body. "She was given full burial rights by her patron God's temple four days ago. The Emperor assured me that she was treated with respect, as was the rest of the guards that died that night."

The topic of dead comrades was enough to have the Special Task Force in the room bow their heads out. That was their cover, inadvertent or not. It was only natural Pina could talk about what had made Hamilton dead.

"We'll give you a moment." Higaki had said before he had moved, the air cleared.

The three were left alone in the room, Imperials only. It was time.

"The pistol, where is it?" Pina had asked sharply, even in her state.

"The what?"

" _ **The weapon.**_ " Chandler had opened his mouth understandingly as he realized what she was asking about. Everyone and their mother had wanted to know that information and he had found out.

"One of the court mages has been looking it over for the last two weeks. They don't even want to touch it, let alone start breaking it apart… I was actually going to talk to Major Higaki regardi-"

Pina had reached out her hand urgently. "Please don't. Please, _on my life_ , don't tell them anything about the weapon."

Konradi's eyes opened in horror. " _They don't know?_ " he said, hushed.

She shook her head no, ashamed. "Decker, he dropped-"

"Who?"

She stumbled as she said Doc's name. "One of the Rangers, he dropped it before he left, that was how I acquired it."

Chandler had looked at Konradi as he looked over at his Halberd. "Whatever the case, I fear we need to get it back."

Konradi shook his head. "I don't care what happens to it, in all honesty."

Pina's mouth had slightly kept itself open as she tilted her head in confusion. "What?"

"All these weapons, these… guns, rifles… they all look so different, so varied in their appearance…" he had gone into his armor, into a pocket no one would've known was in there. Out in the shield of cloth had been the distinctive gleam of spent brass, being out only long enough for Chandler and Pina to see it. "I realize that the delivery device is not important as what is being delivered. In my legions it is the same with my archers."

"You were one of the last legions to acquire crossbows, right." Chandler had remembered. The Western Explorers Legion was on standby during Zorzal's conquest of the Eastern Plains.

"Yes senator. Just an incremental improvement in the delivery of a type of battle implement…" he looked at Pina again for answers. "What do they call what I have?"

Pina should've known, she had collected brass herself, the soldiers she was with not always remembering what they left behind by material alone. Magazines, shells, the dead among others. All were taken and studied by the Empire and her servants.

"Describe to me what you think you have, General Konradi." Pina had asked herself, curious to what the man understood.

"A discarded container for a projectile which truly does the damage."

"A shell." Pina had breathed out, cold in her heart as she knew she was betraying in some small way the Special Task Force who cared for her still, even after her failure. "And what it fires is a bullet."

"Fires?" Konradi had listened in her choice of words, remembering the left behind black, powdery substance that stained the insides of those left behind. As he leaned in Chandler had held the general back.

"You play with fire, general."

The man's face was hardly amused as his mouth tightened in a tight line. "And yet here we are, dealers with the devil." there was a cynical attitude to the general, his grey hair not hiding his veteran status. "But I'll help you retrieve it, it would be better in our hands nonetheless."

Chandler had clapped his hand on Konradi's silver armor. "See, this is why we've gotten along so far."

A man who knew a new time had come and a man who wanted his people to back the winning horse. Of course the two had gotten along.

Higaki, the Seabee, and Archer had come back in at that moment, the three Imperials giving greetings. Technically Konradi had been the ranking individual in the room outside of royalty. Higaki had come in with his own clipboard, notes which he wrote for his own sake.

His face was aggravated. He hadn't counted on Pina siding so fiercely with the Americans.

But yet she hadn't. She believed in a man and what he stood for, a captivation that went beyond her. Perhaps she had blamed her current mental state after so much pain, perhaps she had wanted Emerson to come and do what he had done to the men he killed before her feet with those that had done her injustices.

She could be petty later.

"Now Pina, I must advise you to reconsider your vision of the Americans." he started. "It is Japan that would be most able to help you during this time of turmoil. The Americans are not outfitted to help you if a regime change comes."

"But it is them, personally, I have wronged."

Itami never looked at her any different as he stormed out of the Capital, but Emerson and his people. She had hurt them.

" _That is the only way that Emerson can forgive me…_ " Pina had said slowly, quietly.

"What?"

"The productive thing we can do now, regardless of who we do it for, is to get the slaves back."

Chandler had nodded sympathetically, but General Konradi had answered for him. He had looked into the information about slaves available to him here and there had been… cause for concern. None in Akusho, but there were several present in the immediate area supposedly. Even Noriko's record of being held by Zorzal was ambiguous at best. The only surefire slave known was the one that had caused the Empire the most headaches.

"We're still trying to pull that information out, but the Americans and the Japanese have been seizing the records from the mines before our messengers can get there… all I know is that we sent one to the Eastern Plains, I'm having a contingent sent there to secure him."

"Why so far?" Higaki had questioned, knowing the difference between there and the Capital.

Chandler had waved dismissively as he knew that information. "He was the most feisty out of all the captured. Kept fighting and fighting the guards Zorzal put on him: heard he actually bit the ear off of one of them."

Archer tilted his head, finally speaking up. "You seen him?"

Konradi shook his head. "Nah, this was second hand from General Hebron who is in your custody. Black hair, a little shorter than you…" he dazed out as he looked at the stature of these soldiers. He was always impressed by how Kay was built and formed, and how he and his Rangers were reported to have been just as well maintained as people. It was only then he realized that Hebron's report on that one particular slave had correlated. "I think he was a soldier of your caliber."

Pina had studied the special forces of the world on the other side and that had piqued her interest more than anything. Any information about the other slaves from Ginza had been new information to her.

"Did he look like them, or him?" Pina pointed at the faces of the Seabee and Archer. White and Asian.

Konradi had licked his lips. "I remember what Hebron said about the troops that handled him… that, out of all of them, he was… Well, one of the guards said he looked like one of their brothers."

Higaki had nodded as the words hit them all. "Looks like we have the American… assuming there's only one."

The Seabee had upped, looking at Major Higaki. "I need to radio in to Overlord regarding this. If I was an officer I knew I'd report this ASAP."

"Make sure you cross reference what was said here with the MPs and Hebron." Higaki's recommendation had the Seabee nodding as he left for the radio set upstairs.

Archer had stood there still as he considered what was said in comparison to him and this American slave. He was like him. If he was really like him…

"General Konradi, how fast can your men get to the Eastern Plains?"

"They should be there in a week or so, why?"

"And he's been there for how long?

"I believe he was transferred there a week before Italica fell to your armies." Konradi had seen the worry in Archer's eye. The rage of men with the pedigree of Archer, _of Kay_ , was not to be underestimated. To even implicate that such a man was held in the position of a slave… Konradi's eyes grew large. "They were on horseback. They'll be fast."

Archer had shook his head aggravated. "You should've sent the dragon riders." He made for the door to yell at the Seabee to add on an addendum. They needed direct intervention at the Eastern Plains.

Something else came however at him.

Kurokawa and Tomita had rushed past with rifles, the entire Devil's House stirring in urgency that had only been seen before a battle or an incoming attack.

Kurokawa had stopped however and given the courtesy of handing a rifle off to Higaki and Archer. "We've got inbound."

Higaki had stood up as he racked the Type-74 back. "Hostile?"

Kurokawa shook her head as the background chatter from the radio became clear. " _ **Friendlies**_."

" _This is Mobius One to all Mobius and Rapier elements: establish barrier cap over the Capital. Ground all wyverns and air threats and fire only if the choppers are threatened. Do I have a hard copy? Over."_

" _This is Valkyrie 1-3, four and five, carry the Little Birds and Bravo into Akusho."_

" _This is Assassin Actual to all Assassin fireteams. Do not open fire unless engaged. I repeat, do not open fire unless engaged. Clear the Capital steps. Fangs out but no venom, no bite. Valkyrie Actual you are clear for psyop."_

And slowly the ensemble had built up. The theme with which an unwinnable war was fought to.

The sound of strings, the wail of a lady, the horns of conflict that beckoned the angels of war.

Pina's blood had gone cold. RCT3 recognized the sound and remembered it as the music that saved them from death. To her however, it was the sound of the entire might of the Special Task Force coming for blood.

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Richard Wagner – The Intro of Act 3 of Die Walküre – Ride of the Valkyries**_

* * *

The tips of her fingers electrified as she hobbled out of bed, collapsing as no one but the locals noticed, all the men and women in the Devil's House of the Special Task Force dashing about as they got set for combat. No one had told them anything about what was happening.

Seyton and Samnu had seen the princess collapse as she crawled toward the door. She had always treated them nice, even without Kay's presence. Seyton had maneuvered through the door as he had carefully got the princess on her feet, Samnu getting on her knees as she noticed Pina saying something.

"The roof. Please, the roof." Seyton had heard her too as siblings locked eyes.

As the roar of orchestra filled the air combined with the screams outside, so to had come the beat of helicopters and the distant thunder of fighter jets.

 _"RCT1 and 3 I want both of you to establish a perimeter at least two blocks in every direction. Get on it! Now!"_

 _"Fate Team, we have new deployment orders! Sadera Hill! Clear the LZ for the package, let's move!"_

 _"We don't have enough men to hold a perimeter if the Empire comes knocking. We are the only targets they could touch!"_

 _"Get the slaves, put the cloaks on them! As of right now they're STALMP. Give them the fucking machetes and tell them to hack any uniformed Imperial that wants into Akusho that's not a part of Konradi's legion. We need to get those choppers an LZ!"_

As they ascended the house, bypassing the men and women who were quickly emptying it with rifles armed and loaded, there was a stark isolation that Pina felt as the two lizards that had been Kay's own assistants carried her upward until she felt the putrid air of Akusho battle with the gusts of wind.

The sky was blue, but it was full with metal monsters of black and green, winged birds of prey creating white lines across the yonder.

Pina had immediately recognized this: the choppers were here for battle, and underneath their bodies, tethered by wires, had been the white, broken skull of a legendary dragon.

Behind it had come the Special Task Force.

* * *

 _ **Earlier**_

 _ **D-Day + 62**_

 _ **Falmart – Woods outside Arnus Hill**_

* * *

It wasn't that Bannon had outright detested the thought of being a mother, but what she had been doing with Chuka had felt so outright wrong that it forever soured the idea for her. She hadn't figured herself fit to be a mother anyway, but refugees had come to her and she had been kind to them as a mother should've been.

For Lelei, it was tolerable, there was a business connotation behind it. That and there had been enough of an age gap for it to be possible.

For Ryolu, the peculiar child from Coda Village who had become Lelei's new assistant, she had figured better to take care of him than Rory.

For Chuka however, it made her hide more than she was comfortable with as Itami dragged her down the same hole he was in.

Fortunately Chuka hadn't lost her mother in the attack: her mother had been gone before Red came, but still there was a chance that Bannon could turn into the dead the same as she had transformed Itami.

"I never really liked scopes, did I ever tell you that Lisa?"

"Not that I remember."

She had locked back the bolt on her Enfield as she rose from the bush: the paper target that had been set up by Itami being hit square center by her.

Cam had also risen, his new sawn off shotgun at his side.

Instead of combat kits they had their civilian field jackets on, jeans, clothes befit of who they were without the dog tags. Her eyepatch had still been on, the fabric of the string hidden under growing hair. Chuka had lent her a ribbon for her to tie her hair back for the day, but it burned at her mind that she wore such a thing instead of letting it go free. It was a red fabric, not unlike the scarf she had worn consistently throughout her time with the Special Task Force: a memento of her father that, if removed, would've more than likely killed her.

"Nice shot." Cam had knocked his knuckles against her shoulder.

She grinned for a second as she had shook the shoulder that he had touched, letting the Dakota styled cowboy hat tip toward him. "Thanks." Her hand had run over the wood of the Ishapore Enfield, old and worn, perhaps a little more reflection than she had appreciated. "Wanted to be a sniper in Delta, you know?"

"I know." he had said, she nodding appreciatively. "But just because you made one mistake during the entire process they booted you out."

"If the Deltas didn't want me there, who am I to argue?" she had blown into the bolt before handing the Enfield to Masterson. She was resigned to her fate for a long time, whatever that had meant to her.

He shrugged. "I'm sure all those Deltas are certainly wishing they were here instead of bumming around near the Chinese border I'm sure."

Bannon had taken out a marker as she had walked up to the paper target she had shot, noting the hole that she had made: basically taped onto the trunk of a tree. She had circled it over boldly. That had been her mark on it.

Itami's idea of nice day out with his "daughter" had been mostly been decided by that person who was playing the role. It disgusted her.

Still, die with the lie.

Her fists had curled as she stood there. The anger, it was boiling within her as she thought of Chuka. She didn't _need_ to be like that.

She knew now why Emerson had the rage he did, if only because she had found her reason concretely. Wherein Emerson's rage had come from not being able to act out what he believed that Chinese professor at Syracuse deserved, hers had come from something much more… humane.

Masterson had heard her grinding her teeth as she stopped halfway through the circle, his heart dropping as he reached out again and touched her shoulder, this time there had been pressure behind it. "Lisa."

She winced, brought out of her inner monologue of what she was doing: enabling all of this. Her left eye had burned underneath the eyepatch and she had used all of her strength to beat back the urge to scratch at it.

"Didn't get much sleep last night."

The people of Akusho had called Masterson something in the brief period after they had taken down the Bessara criminal family, based off of what the Italian had screamed at Masterson before he was knocked out by him: lies.

If Emerson had been the Father of Sin, than his children, his Rangers, had been children of the vices and sins that the world had known of. For Masterson he had been called the Son of Lies. But this was something he had known all his life.

Masterson knew that Bannon had been lying, but he didn't say anything. He couldn't. Not when he had just been getting Kay back on his feet from his own break down. He could handle Kay being a crying wreck in bed, breathing hard into the pillow as he spoke like an insane man, saying names unknown to him, as if they had been names etched into his heart.

He wouldn't be able to handle his Bannon falling under the same thing. Not after all this time. Not again. Masterson was like a rock in this regard. Even rocks crack however with enough beating as Chuka had been trying to prove.

"I could get some of Kay's pills if you need 'em, you know?"

If Kay had dreamed of halberds, than Bannon had dreamed of suffering she was not able to prevent. And dreamed that dream she did: the ashes of those she could've saved blowing away until all that was left was a silver cross necklace. Touching it had burned her, and with that pain she had woken up again and again.

She had breathed out hard with her tarnished throat before turning around. She knew what she had been doing to Masterson as much as Masterson had known what he had done to her.

They always had that effect on each other. It was as plain as to see as much as Kay had an effect on them. The trio of Americans that had come to be recognized by the locals as special like Itami was without understatement.

"If I need help going to sleep I'll just stop by one of these nights, alright?" Bannon had admitted, Masterson breathing out of his nose in some amused noise. It was how they had met, bonded, became as they were today in a motel a long ways away and a long time ago.

Masterson had twinged his nose as he blushed and looked away. "You're welcome to. Always are."

"For that I'm glad…" she had turned away too as she had admitted modestly. "I'm sure Kay wouldn't mind either." she said in a tease, her head leaning in just long enough for Masterson to return the motion with a slight brush of the shoulder.

Masterson shook his head as he had let the comment come and go. "We're best friends only, Lisa, me and Kay. Add the W and the B and I wouldn't be the same man." the conservative Texan inside of him had spoken up. "'sides, parents would hate it if I brought home a man of his, uh, well, type."

"Thought you didn't care what they said."

"Point." he had taken a look at the Enfield again. The design of it had been old. Older than the Luger even. Although this particular example had been produced by the Indian Army during the Cold War, the genes of the weapon had gone deep into the very heart of the problem here in the Special Region.

Once upon a time there had been another Empire…

"The Ishapore 2A1." Masterson rattled off. "Chambered in our battle rifle round and a damn fine final iteration of the Lee Enfield rifle… I remember a ranch skirting east of El Paso along the border, I used to work with them. One of the security guards the owner hired had a Lee Enfield like this to take potshots at illegals coming over."

He had neglected to say he had been that security guard to Bannon on weekends.

"I gotta appreciate the Japanese Yakuza in supplying us in such wonderful antique weaponry." Masterson shook his belt, the man having time to somehow commission a leather worker in the Corridor to fashion himself two holsters for the revolvers. The cowboy shtick was getting out of hand, but then again he had killed more men than most of the old gunslingers of old ever did. He had earned his six shooters and no one was going to take it away from him.

There had been a certain stigma attached to those that carried the special force title, the almost callous, reckless personalities of men and women who had been on the Pentagon's list to whack those that the American government wouldn't publically kiss and tell about.

Hitman however, this far in, had created its own, formed out of the very fact they had been to the Capital and led the way down a path that the Marines did not want to go again.

Pierce and Sevson's Marines had all been to war, and they knew where they were going.

For that they would blame the Rangers, but they held no malice. They were only doing their jobs after all.

Almost every soldier, across every military, across every empire and state, had turned the pages of history under the auspices of only doing their job.

"I like it. My mother was British… kinda. So was my father if you saw his immigration papers."

"Brits are alright, I can't seem to summon my inner German though, hard as I try." Masterson had mockingly sent his arm up in a salute. "Can hardly imagine you with a British accent though, especially after we been dealing with that tanker."

The purpose of Bannon and Masterson having gone out alone in those woods was merely of Chuka taking on an aspect of the Rangers. She was going to practice engaging targets with Bannon's shots as precedent. Every time they had passed a paper target Bannon had circled the shot she had hit with her rifle.

"You alright having another body in bed again?" Masterson had asked timidly as they walked in silence and marked the dozen or so targets. He was always brunt with the topic. They both were. Military reformed minds dealing with civil topics.

"Cam, I'm more than alright with having you around again. So yeah, it's alright… especially nowadays."

His voice had dropped into the pure Texan that he had grown up with. It was the voice he had assumed when most comfortable. For Bannon the voice she dropped into was it at its hardest, almost as if she was speaking through the grittiest of sand. "Well, you know, we ain't exactly supposed to be thinking about things like this when we're in the service… Hell, even here."

"You're too hard on yourself, hun'. Don't make it any harder than it needs to be, and you certainly don't need any surprises coming from me."

"Trust me Lisa, I wake up every day still surprised you're in my life again. That scares me straight every day." he had hung back a bit as those words themselves hung in the air, bringing pause to both of them as Bannon had leaned her head back and looked into the trees that the elves of this world call holy. There was a certain serenity to it all as she had found herself leaning back into Masterson and Masterson had appropriately draped his arms over her front.

A peace that she needed. A peace that Chuka needed. Deep down perhaps that was why she was going along with this.

At the ages of twenty nine and thirty, suffice to say that the two didn't fuck around with emotions as much as they did nearly a decade earlier. Playing that game of love and love not that the manga that Itami read seemed to perpetuate was not in their MO. Love worked in strange ways if left to its own devices, though needless to say it wasn't allowed when it had been between two people who had at least a hundred lives to their names.

He had taken the Stetson off his head to fan at his face at the rather intimate moment. "Shucks." He never got tired of things like these. He never got tired of what he felt because of it.

Bannon was still getting used to opening up in the rather precarious free time she had in the Special Region with him, but she knew exactly what she felt when she did utter choice words with her damned damaged voice and fell into her heart's movements.

Love, adoration, affection.

No one that knew had expected anything else.

A sharp whistle and the two had torn themselves apart. It was from Itami.

"Miss Bannon, Mister Masterson!" Chuka had been more than thrilled to see her two American benefactors. Perhaps also as thrilled, or at least smiling, had been Itami. Less so had been Doc, he in full combat gear. They all had emerged from the brush from their brisk walk, meeting the two other Rangers half way up.

Doc wasn't about to play surrogate civilian as easily as everyone else was.

Didn't mean he had to bring all his combat gear out, his SCAR across his chest and a go bag on his back. All of it was intended for Chuka in case of another episode. The gun and the combat gear included.

Privately Doc had been studying magic when he could, combat usage and the extent of the damage one could do with such an ability. Bullets, shrapnel, burns, and of the like he could treat. He couldn't treat things he didn't know. It was his own private study. The subject that distracted him from the events at the capital.

Chuka was told that Doc had brought lunch in all of the bags he had.

That was also true.

Doc had known how to pack a sandwich lunch like no one else.

Itami had appreciated that as much as he had appreciated Bannon lending Chuka her Enfield in that very instance as they came together. That was the deal. Not unlike how Bannon's own father used to take her out on skeet shooting during better days.

Ramirez had often, in spare times when he had been in a better mood, tried to demonstrate proper form for handling a rifle in such a ceremonious fashion. Bannon had been so relentless in nailing it that, as she had held the Enfield across her chest, her right hand had fiercely grabbed the bolt and almost ripped it open, pushing it out and forward to present the arm to Chuka.

Muscle memory had been a bitch, but actual memory had been a further bitch in the case of Chuka.

Gingerly Chuka had taken it. This forgetting she had made the knuckles of her hand bleed by trying to beat to death a rock or mowing down dozens and dozens of raiders with her own bow at Italica. She did not deserve to be squeamish anymore, but her brain had said otherwise as her long fingers found the wood and the metal heavier than she expected, the gun thankfully empty as she muzzle swept the two Rangers.

Reluctantly, Bannon had given her a handful of seven six two rounds. Chuka had seen Black and the Ranger snipers train with a bolt action rifle enough to have a general idea to know what to do.

Bannon had still been annoyed she was snooping them out in regards to their training, but that complaint had seem so insignificant now.

"Thanks again for taking us out, Sergeant Masterson, Sergeant Bannon." Itami had timidly said, totally aware that Bannon hadn't exactly been pleased with him. He had been dressed in the clothes of the commoner: the shirt and pants that Chuka's father would've worn.

"Ever since Rory got her hands on some service revolvers, I believe it's alright." she had said almost like a whisper, annoyed. "If the JSDF is saying fuck it, why not?" that had been under her breath, and Masterson had been the only who knew Bannon's voice well enough to fully comprehend it.

Chuka still had her compound bow from Akusho across her back, but she was more interested with the rifle, running it over with her fingers. "…Old wood." she looked up at Bannon. "Maybe I can furnish this later?"

Bannon had raised an eyebrow over to Itami as he switched over to English. "Give her something to do."

She nodded at the elf with that, a bare smile forming. "I would appreciate that."

Masterson had looked toward his combat medic. "You seem rather tense Doc."

The man had shrugged, pushing his goggles up to adjust. "I'm not here on vacation, sergeant."

Masterson's frown had been subtle enough as he looked at the ground in some shame. "Fair enough." he took out his phone as he had reset a timer, but not before snapping off a candid of Chuka holding the rifle. "Chuka, Mister Hodor punch the ticket when you're ready."

They didn't call Itami his name in front of Chuka. She was that far gone.

That was the price Itami had to pay for her temporary peace.

Then again the Special Task Force knew best what temporary peace was. The Marines had cut the shit, stopped roaming the Corridor and partaking in its amenities, when the 7th MEU in its entirety was brought to war footing and went out on combat mission. They wouldn't talk to the locals. They wouldn't look at them in the eye whenever they did interact.

The Special Region had, in the rightful path of American interventionism, become another land, far from home, where a quagmire could form.

Marines were often hard to tame, any American commander of the last century would've said that, however their current docile attitude as they began to go out and come back from missions was not for themselves. The professionalism that was grafted over their military hearts was the final lesson given from the Middle East. All this, in summary, to simply spare their children from another endless war.

There was no precaution too great for the Americans. This same sensitivity was lost on the JSDF, who'd been more than happy to be the conquering heroes, killing Imperials and the slavers throughout their AO to free the enslaved.

Most of all, it had been lost on the Man in Green himself.

"Anything me and my daughter should be expecting out there?" he said, his hands being pocketed.

Masterson waved back out in the direction he and Bannon came. "Twenty four targets. Up, down, all around partner. I made a line in the dirt, start there."

Chuka had tried looking down the sights into the forest, her cheek finding the wood stock rather well. Both her eyes had been open; an impressive feat for any shooter if she had been comfortable.

"Right," Itami had nodded. "Be back in a bit."

* * *

Doc hadn't been well adjusted to bodyguard duty, but he was called for, so he had slowly slunk along with the pair after a nodding softly at the two team leaders. He would've rather had been there than at the shooting range anyway. He knew how to shoot and he didn't need to tell himself that refinement would've mattered at that point.

"You know Chuka," Doc had started as he had slung his rifle behind his back. "Usually people aren't so eager to pick up a gun… especially in these, uh, well, neck of the woods."

She had turned around, muzzlesweeping both Itami and Doc as the combat medic jittered. "Father always told me that being a warrior in the garden is better than being a gardener in a war."

"Did ya?" Doc asked of Itami.

"Oh, of course! Which is why I'm helping the JSDF now."

"Well you always were bad at gardening anyway."

"Oh well, I never got much practice."

"…I was kidding, Dad." There was a hint of something at the end of her clarification that made everyone, for just a millisecond, pause. Doc had held onto the disgust on his face for just a few seconds longer, making sure Itami saw it.

They found that ragged line in the dirt that Masterson had made, several footprints that belonged to him and his other half already imprinted, giving a hint to the route that he had made Bannon shoot first for a baseline.

Doc had flipped out his own phone as he looked around disinterested. "I'll come running if someone starts screaming."

It wasn't quite the same as handling her bow. It wouldn't have been, but she didn't feel the recoil as she brought the sights up to the first, simply placed paper silhouetted target. It was the shape of a human, but just barely.

She knew what to do however. The sights on the modern bow that she had brought home from Ginza were similar, if not educational just on principal alone.

The shot had rang out, the gun bucking into her shoulder as the muzzleflash exploded in her eye, transitioning to the next paper target she saw. She just knew she had hit the first target. She just knew. Intuition had made her trust her gut instinct to move on as she bore her teeth and started to grind them against each other, her mind silently creaking into a dark place as she rose the Enfield to the next target, also posted on a tree.

She pulled the trigger, but no boom. Even after the 2nd try nothing had come. _**"Fuck!"**_

Itami had been taken aback by that growling language used by Chuka as she remembered what kind of rifle she was using, wrestling with the bulbed bolt, just wanting to pull it back. The Enfield had groaned underneath the amateur handling, but Itami had taken her by both her forearms, basically ontop of her back, and made her right hand bring the bolt upward and then back.

Chuka had shoved her "father" off of her as the anger and frustration took her over and slammed the bolt back to a cock.

Itami had remembered the first time he had picked up a gun and told to fire. He remember what his DI told him and those same words had floated off his lips as he saw where Chuka had hit on her first shot. _"She's a natural."_

* * *

The sound of a Lee Enfield was rather distinctive. As if it was a bold period manifested into sound and fury. A beautiful sound to those who had known rifles and war.

In this case it was surprising with how often that particular sound rung out.

"A proper mad minute, huh?" Masterson had said as he had tipped his hat uncomfortably.

Bannon stirred as she slid her right hand down to her hip, resting on the back of her pistol. "The MPs, how easy do they take to firearms?"

Masterson looked up and to the right, as if actually looking into his head. "Those that aren't afraid of 'em? They're good shots, acceptable. With the break actions they got they view it as a symbol of power and responsibility. I swear to god I ain't never seen someone fear a weapon of their own like the MPs."

"Well you're the one training them, right?" she turned toward her counterpart.

He shrugged. "I only teach them how to get zero on a target consistently. The rest is handled by Mercury and the JSDF."

"What does Mercury tell them?"

"If you have to shoot. You shoot to kill." It wasn't a bad motto.

Another shot had rung out, this one followed by the sound of a branch falling and collapsing onto the forest floor. "Fair enough."

Masterson had looked around at the foliage, all the cover, all the hiding spots that could've used by him in a firefight. "You ever wonder what it'd be like fighting a guerilla war here?"

Bannon had looked around the same as Masterson as shots rang out. "It's not on my bucket list."

"I suppose America's due another one of her wars in a forest for once. I think that's how fate works. Universe is always supposed to be equalized, right?"

"You act like war is supposed to make sense."

"Trust me, none of this shit has made sense ever since that dragon in Ginza."

"Bullshit, I know how you get when things don't make sense to you. You get all laidback and sarcastic." Masterson rolled his eyes.

Another shot had rang out, the irritation over Bannon's dead one had picked up. Before her right hand could go to rub it Masterson had grabbed it still. "Quit scratching at that thing, it's not gonna help it."

"I know, I know." she had said, tiredly, each shot from the Enfield making her regret that Chuka was out there with her rifle.

"Elves are natural marksmen." Masterson went on, letting go of her hand. "Ain't as good as me, but if we give Chuka the time she'd be a damn fine sniper. She has the right, well, mindset."

"The orphan Chuka or the one that has a father Chuka?"

"The wholesome one. You know her god is the god of music, right?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"Her fingers are very particular about their doings, I don't know if that makes sense or not, but her hands are the hands meant for precise work. Playing instruments and such." he had looked down at his own. Giant callouses was all that they were at that point, and yet he had the best shooting hands in the Task Force apparently. The duality of his work had often come across whenever he had looked down at his worn hands. He thought target shooting was an art, even when those skills translated to something much more dismal. "My hands are more… creative hands, I guess."

For just a second Bannon had looked down at her own and thought, not of what they were, but what they had done.

"Cut your fingernails Lisa." Masterson had said lightly, listening for the time between shots, the eventual reload. "One of my nightmares is like, I dunno, it gets torn off one of these days because, like, it gets caught in the shotgun pump or something."

"You call that a nightmare?"

"No more than the five foot five blonde one that's out there right now."

* * *

He knew what that shot would've done. He'd seen it happen before, at Italica. As he had been covering Emerson's team during their fall back to the next position he had seen one of his men land this same shot on a living human being.

He was a Private Sasagawa Hayato. An amateur photographer that had talked with the Ranger Nutt and Black a lot in free time. They got along as friends as general artsy types, if not appreciative of a good photograph. Perhaps the most striking photos however was the photo in ones head, frozen there for all one's life.

The picture in Sasagawa's head that remained there for all time, Itami had known due to one shared smoke one night after returning from Japan, was the image of a man having his throat blown out by one shot from him, and how that man tried to hold in his throat, but only held the exposed airways as he breathed out blood and breathed in his final gasps.

He took his life and he took a picture.

Why he had told his lieutenant this had been wrapped up in an apology, for after that shot he had frozen and ran back with the Rangers, ran like a coward.

Of the 20,000 men killed at Italica he would always remember that one, and Itami knew that horror plastered on a barely human target silhouette with a hole in its neck.

Chuka had tried to take it off, but the head was torn off as she tried to. "Oh no!" she had panicked for a second.

Itami had been quick to calm her. "Oh it's fine, I think Mister Masterson will get the point over that one target."

Chuka had nodded appreciatively at her father before tilting her head into his side affectionately. She had springed up as she pulled back, also pulling the bolt back on the rifle, getting a whiff of the fresh burn of gunpowder. It sent shivers down her spine before she uttered out a burdened breath.

"Something wrong Chuka? Itami had asked.

His daughter rapidly shook her head no. "I'm just wondering how I'm ever going to go back to a bow after this."

Itami had borrowed Cam's concealed carry holster, and it was hidden underneath his garments along with the duty pistol. It now hung heavily at his side as he heard his assumed daughter utter those words. Perhaps he felt what some parents felt when he had seen their children playing with fire, even if it put a smile of their faces.

"I'm not gonna let you have this around the house, Chuka, I think the bow from Japan is enough." That particular bow had fallen under dust, not used ever since Hakone.

"But Dad, a weapon is a weapon." she whined. "And what will happen if one of these new refugees catches eye of my pretty self and comes after me?"

Itami hadn't exactly appreciated his "daughter" speaking like that, but he had tried to play it off. "Well then he'll have to deal with me."

She latched on his side, proud of her father. "I love you Dad." As they met up with Doc he had kept some disapproving look on his face. "I love you too Uncle… Doc."

His appointed name had made him trip up for a second to keep him silent. It wasn't a bad name per se.

"How's our favorite father and daughter duo?" Masterson had spoken up as the three of them came back into view. "Also our favorite Canuck I guess, out of a lack of better option."

"As spooked as you." Doc had plainly said, holding a few of the target silhouettes, his medical marker already highlighting Chuka's hits as he displayed them.

"Here, Miss Bannon." Of all the ammunition Bannon had given Chuka, she had returned a disturbing amount. That had meant she didn't need much at all to complete her run and gun. She hadn't returned the rifle however, she held onto it still and Bannon had feared she was going to have to be upfront.

However first things first in Chuka's playful mind as she saw Masterson look over the target sheets, all of them in awe at her accuracy and placement.

"How about you try Mister Masterson?"

Masterson had raised his eyebrow curiously before looking back out to the course, snapping out of the seriousness of their paper autopsy.

"Revolvers only, Cam." the dare from Bannon had made him chuckle, taking one of the Single Action Armys out in a twirl, only for him to flip it behind his back and land, standing by the barrel in his right palm.

He had made it jump back up with a twitch of his hand as it landed back into the grip of his left.

"You never get tired of being a stereotype, do you?" Itami had cocked his hips.

Why did he fully embrace the idea of being a Texan cowboy? Perhaps it was amplified of some personal pride and pomp by being in a foreign land, but in the end he had grown up as a cowboy born from lawyers. This was him in his element. Besides, many of the most famous gunslingers of the West were lawmen. "Now what could ya possibly mean by that pardner?"

Before anyone had a rebuttal Masterson had dashed off into the forest with mad laughter, the pops of his revolvers quick like lightning, hot as a whip.

Itami had only looked out at the howling man before looking down at the sheets of paper he held. "Wait. There aren't any…"

Bannon had that look in her eye as she stared out at her counterpart disappear into the words. It was pride covered in some other admiration and a pinch of embarrassment. "Let him play pretend, alright Hodor?" the irony of that statement was not lost on her as the gunfire went off from a a man playing Cowboys and Indians.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega**_

* * *

Emerson, for all the dramaticisms he had in the gladiator arena, an item he had yet to inform command formally about, he had developed and learned about some particular combat techniques regarding the various species and races found in the Special Region.

To explain this in word across the combat divisions of the JSDF and MEU had been his therapy from his mental breakdown a few days ago. It served him good, served him well, served him enough to get him back into the swing of things and forget about Pina.

This the reason why he had been walking on a stage within Camp Omega before the Gate with a giant cardboard cutout of one of the basilisk snakes that the Empire fielded in the western deserts where Samnu and Seyton had come from.

Basically a giant cobra not unlike something you would've seen in the basement of any self-respecting villain.

"Now crude as it may be," Emerson had been talking with a rather captain esque voice as he had used his laser pointer to cut across below the snake's head. "The old saying is true: cut off the head and the rest will come."

"Jesus Christ Ranger, do you believe half the shit coming out of your mouth?" a weary Marine had said, obviously not too enthused to be taught how to kill giant basilisks by a man who had pretended to be a dark elf for a month. It was easy to not take the situation seriously. Then again many Marines didn't take the war too seriously until either a.) one of their buddies got shot or b.) they were actively trying to kill someone.

It was how they dealt with the very fact they were in war. It was how Pierce's Marines had survived North Korea after all. These same Marines had blared AC/DC on their little captured North Korean firebase so the entire invasion force knew where they were. Thunderstruck had been going off loud enough to distract enough of the invasion force. That and they had thought it a bad ass way to die.

Some weren't as so lucky to die.

The Marines that had been politely told to attend Emerson's session on how to kill the locals were less than amused, the JSDF on the other hand had been eating it up.

"How do you recommend removing the head from a basilisk, Captain Emerson?"

"Well," Emerson had responded, looking down at the congregated group of grunts. He wasn't surprised at who asked. "Sergeant Kuribayashi… You remove the head with concentrated gunfire, what the fuck else were you expecting?"

That had gotten a rise out of some of the Marines, most of the Americans congregated toward the back as the JSDF stayed studious and took notes.

Hitman had long and away heard this sort of routine from Emerson as they dozed off in the back. They were fresh back from their first combat missions out in the Special Region. Multiple in fact. Some bloodier, more complicated, than most.

Blackburn had been feeding them both new equipment and missions, and they had appreciated it to some extent. Ramirez had been through the old motions of going out on missions, but for the rest of Hitman it was a rather fresh feeling.

Going into an unknown village, all corners and windows checked as Hitman slowly made its way in with the audience of the wide eye'd locals, the representatives from Italica with them to open up talks with whatever person of interests was within that particular area.

To the Rangers bar Ramirez, it was an interesting and new experience. To the Marines it was a historically old one played out a thousand times over.

The Marines had been almost disgusted however with this arrangement for two reasons: One had been the fact it seemed like fate was mocking them. The Marines had got goat corpses laid along footpaths into villages ridden with explosives during Afghanistan. The JSDF got beautiful locals opening their arms and legs to them.

The other was that the JSDF had been still, despite the hospitality, finding a way to inflict casualties among the locals.

It insulted the Marines.

Simple snatch and grabs, and Emerson had been more than willing to feign an identity of Dark Elf again, and more specifically as Bronxon, to persuade any mine owners or slave marketer to give up documents in towns and villages within the AO. Whereas his Rangers and the Marines would come and go without leaving much of a trace, the JSDF always stayed and started to dismantle the slaving aspects of the area, even at gunpoint if needed, and it had been needed for some.

Because gunpoint was needed, guns were currently pointed outward toward the open firing range on the otherside of the road at one of Arnus Hill's staging and briefing centers. More specifically one at the base of the airfield where vehicles transporting men and supplies were constant.

The Rangers had occupied the firing range as their captain did his seminar on the other side of the road, casually putting down rounds as they waited. Their boots had fresh dirt on them, fresh from a mission where a particular plantation west of Italica where the family that owned that farm threatened to torch the entire place if the JSDF didn't stop trying to free their work force.

Hitman's solution was to simply buy them (with Wilbur's money) to the protest of the JSDF forces already present at the site. Obviously they were freed afterwards, but no one, especially the Japanese, felt good about buying slaves.

Ends justified means and as far as the Rangers were concerned a day without blood was a day worth writing about as Nutt had been doing so, feet kicked up on a wooden table. The surface had been collecting brass from Loke's rifle as she squeezed off rounds, practicing her transitions from rifle to pistol. The rest of dozen or so of Hitman that had been there were also doing as such.

"You know Nutt, are you gonna write about how slick my weapon handling skills are for the history books?" she had chided him, her elbow touching the top of his head.

"History won't remember what rifle you used or how straight you shot, Loke. Only who was left standing at the end of it." Nutt rattled off in his usual, academic drawl. "Just take a look at Ramirez, I bet he doesn't even remember what he was holding when he marched into Tehran."

The veteran in question had pumped the 590 shotgun in his hand back once as he unloaded a shot into a training dummy fashioned into an elf. Why the Special Task Force had gotten elf dummies for practice was out of the concern for many, but still, practice made perfect.

"I was holding nothing, Nutt." He walked into Tehran a broken man with broken skin and a broken soul. His hands were numb, unable to open and close as the fight behind him had been over, and he was on the other side as the victor that didn't deserve to live. His former Ranger battalion had been decimated in Iran, and he was one of only a handful to survive and march into Tehran. "Didn't need it at that point. The students of Iran forced the defense force out… or killed them themselves."

"Or maybe your memory is giving out you old fart." Black had still been getting used to the exoskeleton, however his personality had survived well enough, even when Ramirez took a handful of his hot casings and dumped it on the man. The marksman had rolled around as he got the burning metal off of him.

"Love you George." Loke had flatly said, not even looking up from her daze, out into the firing range as the other Rangers kept squeezing off rounds into the variously sized targets of Special Region type. She had been practicing with an AK from Hakone, taking a knee to practice one handed reloading, wedging the rifle in between her thigh and calf as she reloaded. The empty mag had been discarded with a toss as she had racked in a new one, dragging the bolt along her pants to rack it.

The man in question had picked a rolling Black up as he had, like a father, brushed the marksman's shoulders off. "See, at least someone appreciates me."

"Oh come on," the marksman had exacerbated as he calmed down from the lead rain. "Talia loves everyone."

"Love you Black." Loke had kept her vision forward as she said it. In truth she had been perhaps throwing that word around more because of her deeds at the Capital.

She was a sweetheart, straight out of college and her head held high because of it. By what measure or means had led her to become an American special forces operator had been beyond most of Hitman, but perhaps that was her goal all along: to be something that people didn't assume of her.

To think that she had killed people…

Harris had opened up with a long burst from his M60, tearing up a picture of Zorzal posted onto a paper silhouette of a person. "You love me Loke?"

"Some days, Brian." she had slid her hand over the bolt to rack it, joining the autogunner in his assault on a papered prince. She had emptied out the magazine she had just put in into the prince. She should've done it to the real thing. That is what she had dreamed about ever since the Capital. What if she had gone that extra step?

She wasn't herself in that Capital room after the first shot. She told herself that she wasn't responsible for anything that happened there at all. One more body wouldn't have hurt.

"We should've taken him too." Ramirez had said as he reloaded his shotgun.

"And then what? So we could beat the shit out of him more than Emerson and Itami did?" one of the Rangers had said from down the line.

"Give us another mouthpiece that the Empire would listen to. According to Emerson's reports the rest of the Emperor's children are missing abroad on expeditions and adventures with their legions. Pina, Zorzal, and some middle son called Diabo are the only Imperial leaders connected to Emperor Molt."

"Hell, if we could make Kim Jung's son talk our language, I don't see why not." Hitman's dog handler had explained all the wiser. Peters hadn't been up and using his rifle, instead he had been practicing hand signals with Khan. The dog's silence had been an unusual thing to behold, however he had been trained as such. Weapons didn't talk after all.

The Rangers were a spectacle to the Special Task Force. They were given their privacy at the range as they went through the motions of simply shooting. Like a white tiger behind plexiglass, the onlookers could only marvel at them. They were, to the most of the Special Task Force's knowledge, the only SOF on that side of the Gate. With what they had done so far they could only imagine the missions they would be going on yet.

Khan had already gone out on two missions to sights of interest with Bannon and Masterson. His inherent heightened senses had did much to locate a few slaves that the owners had hid away of the bunny variety (Delilah had been thrilled that the JSDF had taken them back and perhaps a little upset that the Rangers didn't encourage it).

Such snatch and grab missions for the information of the slaves acquired from Ginza had felt relatively vanilla to the Rangers, even boring, but I was their job and they didn't complain as they waited for their captain to finish up with his lecture.

In the background the American NPR had gone on from a radio.

"Oh hey, it's our boys back home." A Ranger had noticed the topic matter of one of stories.

 _"Yesterday United States Army Rangers from the 4_ _th_ _Ranger Battalion were engaged in heavy fighting in the Mexican state of Michoacán. Cartel forces congregated today in Morelia as Mexican Army forces became overrun following a standoff. Upon request the American Special Forces came to relieve the embattled forces as heavy fighting in the surrounding areas expanded. To date over one hundred and twenty Americans have been killed in the intervention in Mexico. Many insider reports the last remnants of ISIS's Southern American cell is operating now within the cartels however this is yet to be independently confirmed by any credible news outlets or the Mexican and US government."_

"The war in Mexico is intensifying and Vietnam War II is about to kick off… shit, and we're stuck over here." Nutt had still been scribbling away in his notepad about something or another as he had bellyached.

Khan had picked his head up from looking at Peters' finger as he heard Nutt's displeasure. The dog handler looked unamused. "After all this you actually want to go fight another war?"

Nutt rolled his eyes. "Well, shit, course not. Least in Mexico I know I'm shooting up bad people and not rubbing shoulders with the JSDF."

"You know we're not the one and done type of military, right?" Ramirez had looked up from his Corridor newspaper. He would know. Who says that his military service was done after all was said and done in the Special Region? For Ramirez he had known if he hadn't stopped being a soldier after Iran then no war of any measure would've stopped his service.

"Duty calls, yeah, I know." Nutt had put down his pad, words and words of the history he had been living was within the lines of it. Ramirez had still burned a hole through the man with his potholed face, made from shrapnel and dirt he never bothered to dig out of his skin. "…Sorry George."

"Respect your elders…" he had pumped his shotgun, pointing it down at the faux-elf. "Besides, I'd rather be here than Mexico."

"Still, wouldn't mind fighting a war that's like, five hours from home." Nutt's words had rung true as a Californian, and that had, in some small part, paused Ramirez as he brought the 590 to his cheek.

"I won't argue… but I suppose we're all _**sicario**_ now."

Even to the other Hispanics in Hitman, Ortiz raising an eyebrow at the older man in the middle of a reload, that word was unknown to them.

That word in Mexico had meant something they all were at that point though: having donned the title of Hitman as it were during the Crusades.

The thousand year difference between them and the original hitmen of Jerusalem was null, for they all killed Romans at that point.

* * *

 ** _Falmart – Outside Arnus Hill_**

* * *

For some particular reason, perhaps it had been a fluke, Chuka had landed immaculate shots everytime toward the upper torso and the head. It left Bannon, Itami, and Doc silent as Masterson crossed over her hits, the gunslinger stuffing the target paper into a roll for later examination.

For good measure he had Chuka send the last few rounds as fast as she could into the woods. Her target retention was something… scary.

Masterson was better with his, if only because he had done it in a faster time and more consistently. That and he had experience derived from the old gunslingers of the West.

"So you said you learned from Black?" he prodded, unbelieving still as she had been relieved on the rifle by Bannon.

"The sniper you have? Yes. I watched him a lot when he trained at the range."

"But you've never held a rifle before right?"

"It was how I learned how to use my bow. I saw and I copied."

"Monkey see monkey do, eh?" Masterson had held his hat as he fanned his face with it, looking up into the blue sky. The outbound flights had settled down after a while, but they were still present, and the forest they were in was below the usual flight path out of Arnus and Italica. "Just be lucky you ain't ever gonna shoot a man like Black does."

"Oh, I could never kill a living thing."

And they all remembered that Chuka had taken her share of life during Italica. She had mowed down a hundred and more with the misplaced fury born from a dragon.

Doc had shifted his safety goggles as he looked away unbelieving, uncomfortable with how Chuka had said it as if fact. He spoke French in front of her for safety, Bannon having knowledge of the language to an extent. _"Her mind is deteriorating every day."_

"I'm not brave like you four are anyway." she had laughed it off as she racked the bolt of the Enfield once or twice to make sure it was empty, not wondering why her hand had instinctually twisted it like Bannon; as if she had done it before, as if she thought she had used the Enfield in anger before. Her knuckles had still been destroyed at the skin level, she not remembering where that had happened as well.

Grimly, the Americans had only looked in disdain as Itami resumed the role that Chuka had made him out to be.

Itami had started to lead them out of the woods. "Come on sweetie, let's go get some lunch before I head in for work today."

"Alright father!"

Bannon had stood on her toes for a second as she whispered in her counterpart's ear. "Hey, Cam, go distract Chuka for a second."

He nodded as he had walked forward in the group, touching Chuka's shoulder. "Hey, Chuka, mind if I talk to you about some things I saw today regarding shooting?" she had happily abided as she had unknowingly picked up the pace with Masterson, the man taking back the rifle cautiously.

Doc had known the play as he stretched out his arm and stopped Itami, politely waving him back to walk in step with Bannon.

Unease had set into the man. With Bannon he had felt something more than the dread he had with Emerson whenever his darkness had showed. With Bannon he had felt it directed toward him.

Before this all he hadn't known what to think of her. She was, in her distracted, idle moments, beautiful. Itami had once or twice recognized the beauty of her face that Masterson saw, thin lips and a button nose complimented by a gaze that was soft. Sure he hadn't put too much effort into it but it gave him food for thought about how someone who had been so fair in the face (and gracefully formed everywhere else) was able to survive in this conflict.

He found out very intimately soon enough however.

"Itami, we're both Rangers on some level, yeah?" the woman had started as she had crossed her arms and walked. Itami nodded, and she saw that in her peripheral. "Well then you must understand what Rangers do, right?"

"What?"

"I want you to tell me that all my training, all my experiences in the military and all my conduct as a soldier has led to this: babysitting a mentally ill teenager."

Itami had gotten the point immediately. Accepting it not so. "It's just one thing Bannon, she's just one person we can help."

"You call _**this helping**_ , Itami?

"Die with the lie, Bannon… You said it yourself."

" _ **And the truth shall set you free.**_ "

Itami had tightened his mouth as he looked in the trees. "Do you hate me, Bannon?"

She didn't answer, brushing back the bangs of her hair irritably. "She's suffering needlessly."

"She'll die if I tell her. You know this."

 _"Would you be able to set her up with a full life if we left? Leaving her without us?"_

Itami's eyes widened as he heard his reflection from Bannon. " **Doc.** " The man didn't respond to Itami as he kept walking forward. He was the only one there who had heard Itami say those exact words. Kurokawa would've loved to see Itami right now, but she had been quiet ever since the Capital. She had been more putting down fire at the ranges more than she had gone to the medical buildings and preformed her chosen capacity.

It was a shame, Doc had said after he had left her bedside after RCT3 came back from Arnus to Italica, she was a good medic. She was a soldier first unfortunately.

"You know, the JSDF, Ass-Kisser, they keep trying to taunt me over Yao's request and go kill that dragon… They keep saying that it's what would Itami would do." Bannon, she was hard on her men, but for good reason. Any of the Rangers would tell anyone that about her. She always thanked her DI, Walker, for that attitude. Her being this to Itami had purpose, even if she did, in some cruel manifestation, enjoy it. It's what he deserved. " _ **I'm just doing what Itami would do.**_ "

Again the same question flashed against Itami's mind, this time he pleaded. " _Do you hate me, Bannon? Does Kay hate me?_ "

She scratched her eye as her throat grumbled in aggravation. "I hate what you're doing. You are causing her suffering whether you know it or not."

" _ **God dammit**_ , you don't think I know this?"

Chuka's sensitive ears had twitched as Masterson had hurried her along. "Uh, Hodor's just talking to his boss." he said frantically.

"Well if you didn't it would explain why you're a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing!"

Doc had motioned Masterson forward with Chuka as he stayed behind and faced them both, the two stopped entirely as Bannon looked up and stared into Itami's eyes.

" _ **A wolf**_? That's what you think I am?" there was disbelief in Itami's eyes as Bannon's one burned.

It took one to know one.

" _Sergeant Bannon, Lieutenant Itami._ " Doc's voice had cut the line before it had gone taut, the two soldiers looking toward him. "Lunch is waiting. If you want to kill each other at least do it while full."

* * *

Chuka's house had been a well made cabin within spitting distance of Arnus and the refugee housing. The model of further constructions to be made within the wooded area around Arnus Hill for more refugees and immigrants to live within Japan's purview. Hers was the first one built for her service to the Special Task Force so far, and it was a nice cabin in the woods if nothing else.

It was nothing but a nostalgic throwback to the conception of a fairy tale home: the grandma's place that one went over the river and through the woods for.

A quaint image of a life that many would live in peace with.

Everyone was dressed the part too, save one rather disgruntled combat medic who, even if he had provided the food, had been sidelined to Chuka's couch to eat.

He was always a fan of his own work however, especially when he had bit into his own sandwich.

"One thing I can appreciate about colonialism is this particular thing the French made up when they came to Vietnam." Doc hadn't made just any plain white bread sandwich, he had made something that had resulted from Asian fillings to French bread. The collision of Vietnamese greens with French baguettes was a delightfully crunch and filling food item which everyone ate in Chuka's house peacefully.

It was a rather calm scene, the table which they were at coming from the Corridor's own furniture and wood craftsmen.

"Risa likes _banh mi_ too actually. It's cheap food." Itami had let slip out of his mouth in exchange for the sandwich.

"Who's Risa?" The sandwich might've also come back out as Itami had broken his cover, even for the slightest of seconds and references.

Itami had been quick to swallow back the bread. "Just a friend."

"Oh come on father, don't lie to me, I think it's time you find someone else in your life… even if it's Captain Jay Kay, I understand if you want to… change up."

Risa and Itami, as Emerson had often reported late at night as he had pillow talked with Hitman's late sleepers, were "getting better". He lied of course. They _**were**_ better.

Deep down Itami and Emerson had both thought that Emerson was the one to thank for it, if not the whole "horror of conflict" thing.

"Oh how about you Chuka? I heard you got a few gentlemen callers if the bar talk is anything to indicate." Masterson had elicited some playful 'tsk' from Bannon but naturally it had only embarrassed the elf.

She twirled her hair in her finger. "Oh, unless any of them are elves…"

"Or Mari?" Doc had been snide as he coughed the suggestion into his hand.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." She tried to be dismissive, but failed to Doc's amusement.

"Oh, Mari's a wonderful woman Chuka." Doc had been a good judge of character, no one would doubt that. "Maybe a bit abrasive and a workaholic at the hospital, but I wouldn't mind taking her out myself."

Doc had also been a brave man, though those that survived cancer were often the bravest of their kind. Moreso brave was the rare breed of cancer surviving US Special Forces.

"If only mother could've gotten to a hospital like the JSDF have, maybe…" The loss of a parent Chuka had evidently endured before. She had endured it well and, to all indications, perhaps it was the Special Task Force's handling of Chuka after the loss of her village that made her a ticking time bomb.

Maybe it was their fault.

"How is the hospital anyway?" Doc had been out of his role as a Ranger same as Bannon and Masterson with their babysitting, granted he was still on duty as a doctor at the field hospitals and with the Red Cross at the various clinics they would visit for more complicated cases.

One thing the Red Cross was doing completely right in the Special Region at this point was educating the local doctors on traditional medicine as they knew it back on Earth. The educational classes had gotten bumpy. There was a ceiling that was hit when the science came involved, and Lelei had predicted this, however the Red Cross had to go back to the books that they had when they were involved in Africa to fully restart.

It wasn't that the people in the Corridor were dumb, but the way of life that they held onto wasn't as accommodating to the nuances of modern concepts and core knowledge. Simply put: they weren't born in that world.

The hospital at Arnus was the only place, asides from the clinics run by the local medically trained population, where the Corridor could get consistent modern health care. The Marine field hospital at Italica was shut down to everyone but the Marines.

To say that this soured those living on the American side of the Corridor had been an accurate statement: the PXs also posting outside their doors that they would be "temporarily" closing down to non-Task Force personnel until further notice at an assigned date.

Doc had wiped his mouth over with a handkerchief. "Getting fuller, but we can handle it. Same way it was after Italica… Had to carry a damn gun going in and out of there however."

"Well don't you always carry a gun?" Chuka had tilted her head at Doc innocently.

"True, but one of the sites that the JSDF raided and brought people back from was a shrine on the western edge of Italica's farm holdings. God of the Harvest." he drifted off as he looked at his SCAR. "The followers are now in mourning in front of the hospital."

"The hell does the God of the Harvest need slaves for?"

Doc curled his lips up as he took another bite of his sandwich. "Sacrifice."

Chuka had been happily eating into her Vietnamese sandwich, more appreciative of the particular crispness of the green than Masterson, the man an avid idealist when it came to his carnivorous appetite. She hadn't been so engrossed to not pose the question. "Did you not know that the god Horo is appeased by blood to nurture the harvest?"

Masterson couldn't do much but continue to eat his own sandwich, guzzling down the sparkling water that Doc had brought. "Well if this Horo is anything like Holo the Wise Wolf I doubt it."

Itami had chuckled at the reference.

The pleasantries of a domestic lunch were shattered soon enough however.

"This is Assassin to any Hitman elements, please respond. Over" the radio handlers for the Marines had called in to the two Rangers radios, beneath their jackets. Masterson had nodded to Bannon for her to take it, she holding the radio's clacker.

"Hitman 1-1 Actual reads five by five Assassin. Over."

"Assassin. 1-1 Actual do advise that Hitman Actual is now green with Hitman 2-1 Actual's team. Request 2-1 Actual at Camp Omega for the next deployment. How copy over?"

Bannon had shot a silent gaze over to Masterson, the man hearing it that as he clasped his hands. It was time to go to work.

"Have to go off for JSDF and Marine business Uncle Masterson?"

Masterson rose an eyebrow in shock. " _ **Uncle?**_ "

"Huh?" Chuka hadn't believed what she herself had said.

The Texan had dodged the implications as he had shook it off, shaking his duty rifle on his back quick to make sure it had been there and steady as he stood up, a hand on Bannon's shoulder and a squeeze. A hand had returned only to squeeze it back for a fleeting second, Bannon not turning her head as she leaned onto it, almost not wanting to let go.

She always had to of course; they both had to.

Doc had, in some jest, shook his head a bit as he turned around. His obligation to be a code keeping medical professional in the military had screamed in his head to say at least something warning them about what they were. However he was a human being first, and he was always one to enjoy a love story.

"Love is a particular type of infection, isn't it sergeants?"

Masterson had rolled his eyes as he had returned the squeeze for a second, letting go. "Says the man who had a princess swooning after him."

Doc had hardly fazed. "Her fault, not mine." he wasn't quite sure if he believed himself.

The statement was quippy enough for Masterson to chuckle as he passed, a fist out and a knuckle touch exchanged. "You coming with me for this one?" Masterson referred to the next deployment, tightening the secondary belt on his form that held the revolvers and the shotgun.

"Nah, Captain Jay Kay said he wants me attached to Bannon for the next one."

"Oh what am I ever going to do without you Doc?"

"You'll step on a dagger and bleed from your plantar artery and haunt me for the rest of my life."

"You wouldn't be so lucky." It was a quip that had made Bannon chuckle and Masterson was happy to leave on that note, Doc finding a seat back on the couch.

"Remember when you and Mom were like that father?"

"Uhuh, yeah." Bannon raised the eyebrow over her eyepatch in some concerning disbelief, she taking a sip of her coffee and trying to ignore this lie she was a part of, not even realizing what Chuka had insinuated between the Texan and the her.

She wouldn't have minded it anyway. If Hitman had played the game of shipping their two team leads together it was a game they were far behind.

 _"How good is your French really, Sergeant Bannon?"_ Doc had sipped at his cola as he awaited an answer, having given the question in French.

 _"Comme ci comme ça."_ Growing up rich tended to lend her some higher class of linguistic skills.

 _"If there's any time to put the elf into a hospital, it's now."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"A few JSDF grunts checked into Arnus's hospital a few nights ago, I just found out. Restless. One of them was too close to a crack of wood and now the right side of his face won't stop twitching."_

 _"It's starting?"_ The stress. The realization. The horror of war which people once called shell shock. The traumatic realization that every soldier had an answer to hide whenever child who did not know any better asked this question: _**How many people did you kill?**_

 _"We all dream the nightmare of Italica at this point."_

Itami hadn't understood, but this was purposeful. He had pissed Bannon off enough to let her have her privacy in plain sight, he looking down at his chest pocket and seeing a cigarette poke out. To think, once long ago, he had quit smoking in exchange for more money to buy manga. He had seen it as a disposable asset, an extra addition to his life of frivolous merit. Now he had seen it as a necessary evil.

He remembered who else had now smoked. "Hey, Doc," Doc had glanced at Itami. "How's Captain Emerson?"

There was genuine care in his voice: the worry that his friend had been hurt beyond repair. In truth he felt bad that he was taking care of Chuka and not him.

"Captain Jay Kay's alright. He was just drunk," Doc had looked away. He always did that when telling a lie about someone he treated. "…yeah, just drunk. Is all."

Medical malpractice wasn't his forte, but neither was the carnage he had helped perpetuate and the lie he had seen play out between father and daughter.

He ran his fingers on the linen of the couch, feeling the modern pillows Pina had purchased for herself and her father to make this feel like their new home.

"That's shit and you know it." Itami speaking so harshly in English had made Bannon shake her tea cup hard, Doc freezing.

" _ **Hypocrite**_." Doc had glared his eyes as he store at the floor.

"No more than me. You're as scared as losing your captain as I am of losing her… you know what happens when you let someone go."

Doc had been the man who had seen Tracey's family before they were gathered into the body bags, chopped apart on the bathroom floor of a Ginza convention center. He had been the man who had to look into Tracey's eyes and tell him that he had every right to go mad. He saw the same eyes in Chuka, but no one ever told her that she had that right, for it would kill them all.

Like the ISIS affiliated bombers that hit America in 2020, the damage would be absolute, indiscriminate, and drag everyone down to a dark place.

"She's not the only one who's gonna go nuts in this Region, Lieutenant Itami."

"Who's Lieutenant Itami?" Chuka had blinked as Doc had pointed at him, she seeing Itami instead as her father, replacing the man. Doc had flicked his own hand away as he held his hips, turning away.

" _What the fuck._ " he said under his breath, head darting around, looking at the furnishings of the room and how, out of everyone, even with the elf, he was the anomaly. Dressed up in mismatched camouflage and equipment that carried America across a thousand battlefields, he did not belong here.

He made to correct that mistake.

Doc had made for the door and before he had left he had these choice words. "Lieutenant, if you're going to assume your role as a father, then let me tell you this." he had pointed at Itami, his finger directly poised at his chest, where his tags had hung. "You're not the only father in the military. Duty calls, and you will have to leave those you love behind. I don't think she'll be strong enough to deal with it."

The silence that came with the door slam was needed as Itami recollected himself.

Chuka had stirred innocently. "Is that a side effect of cancer?"

She hadn't a clue what cancer was but she knew Doc had been afflicted by it. It always was what hadn't been known that ate people from the inside out however, both in mind and body.

"Not quite." Bannon said pointedly, glancing at her watch. "Thank you for the tea, Mister Marceau, Miss Marceau, but I need to get back to Italica."

"Will you be back tonight, _**Auntie**_ Bannon?"

Bannon licked her dry lips as she heard those words come out of Chuka's mouth. Those were the words that told her that she needed to. Again.

She breathed out with her cracked throat once, forcing a smile. "Of course hun'." She left her field jacket on the chair, underneath it had revealed her day to day uniform of the mismatched woodland and desert BDU, the sling to her M4 also underneath it.

The M4 itself had been propped with an umbrella against a door, it being clipped on before she slid out.

"I'll see you at work Hodor."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega**_

* * *

The deployments didn't take much more than half a day. That was the speed of which America was doing them at. Go in, get out, and leave as little trace as themselves behind. For America it was all or nothing, and it was nothing at this contingency of Operation Odyssey Ultimatum.

The information that was being brought back was being mulled over by the command staff at Italica, Sergeant Major Freeman in charge of the effort.

Lelei had been one of the main translators of those documents as she sat with Myui in Sevson's currently unoccupied office with the heir to Italica.

Her pale lips had been reddened by the particular type of tea she had been trying: Rooibos. Sergeant Bannon's tea had been an illuminating glimpse into her heritage, and she tried to learn as much about Hitman and RCT3 as she could in between her own, personal discoveries and learning.

"No thank you Lelei, the flavor is much too strong for me." Myui had waved off Lelei's offering of the tea kettle across the coffee table as she looked at one of the slave manifests from a coal mine a few kilometers to the east.

She had a royal face if that had been an applicable word; young, fair, pale, and groomed. However her face was, at least on that day, the only part of her that seemed royal. Her golden hair was tied into a ponytail and she wore clothes of a modern teen down to the jeans and hoodie. Lelei hadn't been as welcoming of modern clothing, if only because they hadn't been graced by her magic castings to be of any practical use of her, but jeans and hoodies were slowly making their way into the wardrobes of the Corridor. The t-shirt had already made it past the AO of the Special Task Force by the traders that came and went, and Emerson had reported the stylings of Japan's anime and manga had an effect on the clothing of the Imperial high class.

His usual date to those gatherings where he would intermingle with the Imperial high class had been Pina of course, and she had been often prude to not fall into that trap as she would often boast to him.

Fashion was one of the many tendrils of the world past the Gate, and it surprised her that a royal who was basked in it, even one as young as Myui, had numbed to it in the name of new and available by the PXs.

"Oh come on Madam Myui, you gotta live a little." Ryolu in all of his energetic pomp had been pacing around the room with, not a teacup, but a mug of the stuff with a little more added sugar than one would recommend with tea. Same age as Lelei and he had about three inches on her, even if she had the three mile gap forward with education and pretty much everything else.

Wearing the clothes of a high Italican however had tricked himself into being smarter than he was. Though he was working on it as Lelei's new assistant, going over more local items on the agenda as opposed to those that concerned with the Special Task Force.

Admittedly Lelei enjoyed having someone willing to learn from her for once. Cato was a good teacher, but to be able to look on the other side of that coin was perhaps more illuminating than some of his lessons.

"Haven't we all lived enough?" Myui shot back.

"I haven't lived until I've seen the otherside like Lelei has here," in one hand had been the mug, the other had been a letter translated from the Special Task Force down into the Lingua Franca about the dangers of eating exclusively from the PXs. Admittedly Lelei wouldn't listen to him, another source of red hand painted her fingertips, and those that had been the maraschino cherries and the syrup they were stored in. "That's one benefit of the job, right Lelei?"

Lelei couldn't decide if she had been annoyed or thankful with Bannon and the sniper with the broken leg being back the handsome boy with the paint of his ancestors seemingly sinking into his eyes in the sharp design.

"I don't see how you could be useful over there, Ryolu." she said in her usual disposition. Perhaps it had been a prerequisite of the job of being Lelei's assistant to not be taken aback by her attitude, which in that case Ryolu excelled as he just sipped his tea. Then again the job was just created five minutes after Bannon had come back from a run with Black. "Found myself a way to be useful with you, right?"

"I could easily just fire you and actually hire someone who's qualified."

"But you haven't… why?"

Lelei brushed blue hair behind her ears as she looked at her new worker. "I'd rather not distract someone who is good at their jobs from their job. I can manage without you anyway."

"Haven't answered my question ma'am."

She looked back down at the reports. "You're good at listening."

Ryolu had taken that as his small victory of the day. "Thanks for hiring me Lelei."

For Lelei, she had humored herself as she shook her head ever so subtly. "You're welcome."

It was the natural pull of children in the scary and merciless world toward each other that had made Lelei comfortable with Ryolu more than she had let on. The way she had grown up hadn't been so welcoming to childhood friends.

"You know my father was never able to make contact with this mine. Always wanted to fold it into his holdings but the owners would always turn our associates away." Myui had commented on the manifest she was holding and where it came from as she laid back in the couch. "I guess they don't have a choice now."

"It's either our way or the highway." By her association with Bannon Lelei had to hang out with Masterson in the same way Itami did: which was listening to him and his vernacular.

"Our way?" Myui chirped.

It wasn't distinctly clear on who was defined as "ours". "The Special Task Force is merely acting on the interest of the people here Myui. For now, it's our way." Lelei had clarified. Not that she had believed what she was saying.

A Marine had walked in. One of Sevson's assistants. Who knew Marines could be assistants, seamstresses, cooks, plumbers, writers, and the like? It took Lelei some time to understand that, although every Marine was a rifleman, not every Marine held equal role.

He had paused as he had seen the two girls, his tan face marked by war, but not old or weary. Just a man who had been attacked and survived and still serving. Battle scars of wars long gone. He was young, his cut regulation.

He had a few reports and folders in his hand meant for Sevson's desk but his right hand had, habitually upon the sight of Myui, raised to a quick salute. "Sorry for disturbing ma'am, just dropping some reports off."

Myui had smiled gingerly at him. "It's okay Marine, can you please deliver us some more tea and water if you may?"

It took a few moments for the soldier to respond in his desert uniform, at a loss for what to do. Civil words from civil people. His mind had frozen at the simple request, serving children. He didn't detest it; didn't think it wrong, he knew he would've said yes without question. Though the fact was it was a polite thing to do that seemed so outside his hammered military thought processes he forgot how to respond. It'd been a long time, his mind had flashed, since he had sat with his family, this Marine realized.

He thought and went through all of this as his mouth dried, only for him to buck up and silently nod.

"Uhm- yeah, I'll get right on that ma'am."

He had rather rigidly picked up the tray with the refreshments before moving out, Ryolu opening the door for him.

"He looks spooked." he said in the Lingua Franca. "As if he hasn't seen a kid before."

Lelei had looked down at her own notes. They always were with her: half her mother tongue, a quarter in Japanese, a quarter in English. She glanced over the nature of the 7th MEU.

"The Marines here are a special type… they've seen kids before. A lot of them are old enough at this point to have kids of their own."

Ryolu had always been more observant than most. "I don't think that's the problem, madam."

"How so, Ryolu?"

It was a nervous tic of the boy to run his index finger along his temple: everyday he had reapplied his black facepaint that extended from his eyes to a band that disappeared into his black hair. The smear of his finger dragged down along the side of his face had meant he had been stressed or thinking. "When the JSDF looks at me, they smile, say that they remind me of their own kids… when the Marines talk to me… yeah, I see it in their eyes, I think they remember kids too somehow, but different. Afraid maybe."

Myui had laughed as she closed her folder. Enough work today she figured. She was due to meet with a few local leaders throughout the Corridor regarding the idea of districting it anyway. "Why would warriors like the Marines have to fear kids like us?"

Lelei dug into her work and organization to ignore the question, but she heard it anyway and her mind had given her the answer. Pierce's unit during the 2nd Korean War had held its position on top of a captured North Korean artillery base at all costs.

Both to them and those who came to reclaim it; regardless of age.

The rest was history, for Pierce's unit never let go of that position.

"Oh I don't know Madam Myui. I don't mind being treated with a little responsibility with the JSDF though."

"I am used to it. My father always used to parade me in the streets to win hearts and minds. Working with Major Sevson… it's different."

"Major Sevson works hard not to disrespect you." Lelei had started to close her own folder.

Ryolu motioned to the picture at Pierce's desk. It was one of Sevson's family with his own. "He has two daughters around our age you know, I think it might come from there more than it does his duty."

For perhaps one of the few times on her own, Lelei had smiled at herself. "Just think about when they finally stop treating us like children. With progress comes power."

"I suppose parading down the Corridor once wouldn't be bad, especially with the Marines."

The idea of an American military parade was a foreign concept: to have Abrams tanks rolling down the Corridor with their flags out and carried on their backs.

"Not the JSDF?" Lelei raised her thin eyebrows.

Myui put her thin arms behind her head, resting on American upholstery. "I work with the Marines more, their base is in my city and I wish my father could see how Italica is now because of it. They're all wonderful people… are the JSDF not like them?"

Ever since the resort Lelei had known of the existence of video and audio bugs, her staff had, even resting at the opposite end of the room, obeyed some mystic hand gesture of her own making the blue gem on top pulse a wave across the room.

Whether or not it had done what Lelei intended to do hadn't mattered. She knew the spell worked, and thus she spoke.

"The JSDF are being too friendly, I think. It reminds me a lot of my step-sister's father." Her lips had pursed and her gaze had become blank again.

* * *

" _Deployment orders. Rendezvous with RCT1 in Akusho and assist in embassy preparations."_

Around the time Hitman was cleared for duty again RCT3 had followed as well and their next missions had thrown them back where they left off, without Hitman.

They were also ordered to make sure Hitman didn't know this. The mission to be enacted in two days or so. Two days and then Chuka was left on her own again and no one to kill that dragon. Two days until, more or less, Chuka died.

If Itami had to act the part of father he had to see her as a daughter of his own, and to accept that in two days that your daughter might've exploded…

Itami took a drag from his smoke, sitting outside the hospital of Arnus Hill in the dead hours of night when even the Special Task Force was relegated to sleep. He was a sleepless man at the end of his rope at that point: a thirty three year old soldier indistinguishable from those around him save for his plight.

His peculiar plight with refugees in a Special Region.

What ifs passed by his mind. Hows and whys. Reasons and exceptions to fate and all that it meant.

His work in the Special Task Force now at Arnus Hill had been paperwork and Hearts and Minds performances. It wasn't too different from the arrangement he had before Ginza really, but everything had changed.

He had changed.

On his way to work that day he had passed Yao, waiting for him, merely wanting to be seen and to remind him there was an answer to this all. He couldn't bare to look at her in the eye and, in some measure, she knew she had won in that sense. He knew he had lost their battle of attrition and wits.

"Youngster." A voice in the dark. He looked over to hear the hobbling of a cane and plastic feet. Another patient of the hospital. He had been there ever since the Corridor had been set up. A grisly injury by farm equipment apparently had robbed him of his left eye, left arm, and right leg. Rather specific injuries for what had happened to him but Arnus Hill wouldn't deny him treatment. He was classically an old man. Long flowing white hair, a face like stone, a beard that put men of masculinity to shame.

"Big Boss." He was an Otaku and he played videogames. That's what he had told himself recently. He hadn't much time to read manga however with the recent advent of his daughter.

"Excuse me?"

"I said good evening, mister."

The old man had smiled as he slowly made his way over to the bench, standing before Itami. For whatever reason Itami had reminded himself he still had his pistol in his thigh holster. "Mind if I join you youngster?"

Itami shook his head. "Go right ahead."

The old man had started down slowly, his face illuminated by moonlight. To Itami it revealed scars and pimples from a life lived in action. "Thanks. I come here every night" he had pointed a red prosthetic finger at Itami. "First time I've seen you."

"Oh, sorry," Itami had just about stubbed out his cigarette when the man had stopped him.

"It's okay. I know who you are anyway. Most everyone does around here."

"Really? Where'd you hear about me?"

"Around…" Itami had blew smoke literally at that answer into the air. "but personally I got a bigger picture from one of the Marine knights… the one that's been begging with the dark elf."

Itami's eyes had clicked open in the dull of night, taking a better look at the man he had called Big Boss. "Yeah, you're that old farmer from the Elbe Fiefdom that Wilbur got some information from regarding what's down there, right?"

"Mmm." He confirmed, laying the crutch he was using against the bench. "I come out when my missing limbs start to ache. The cold soothes the pain."

"A Phantom Pain?"

The old man wouldn't have gotten the reference, but still, the title of the videogame was analogous to what it actually was. "Yes, the doctors did tell me I'd have such problems." Quite a few of the Corridor inhabitants and the prisoners on the other side had been crippled in some way: for the prisoners back in Japan kept away from public eye below Mount Fuji in its "forest of death", they weren't perceptible except by the JSDF and the international observers. The Corridor had no ignorance as men with half bodies rolled on carts and hobbled on fake legs however. It was almost like Berlin or Sierra Leone after it had fallen and the populace had to rebuild: even with missing limbs due to the Soviets or Civil War taking their literal pound of flesh from the people.

"We have medication for that, you know." Itami responded, his own drug falling away into ash with a tap of his finger along the filter.

"I don't need it. I have this time at night to treat myself… which makes me wonder what you're doing here, youngster."

Itami had his answer already practiced for Chuka as to why he had been out this late: "Monthly psychiatrist check up."

In truth there was nothing monthly about it. He had dragged himself to the shrink after he had the nightmares about his mother again, immediately after Bannon had told him to die with the lie. The dreams had been different now however. Before, he could deal with them, he could escape into his otaku world. However now something else had come in his dreams: the night terrors, the _nightmare of Italica_.

To survive he needed to kill.

To survive he needed to kill.

To survive… his mother… he needed to kill her.

That's what his mind told him and he had violently rejected every notion of that thought. Though it was a thought buried into his mind, long ago used to lash out against his mother which led her to immolate herself. It was always there, brought out by the cacophony of chaos and gunfire he had been engrossed in recently.

He had finally taken a life himself and so that dark thought, that dark damaging thought of harm toward those he loved but also dragged him down into darkness, it confronted him again after all this time. Incoherent thoughts of the going mad, manifested as he had held Yao by the throat in his drunk anger.

Everything, Chuka, the Capital, the Empire, the Special Task Force and its need of him, it was too much.

"That didn't answer my question youngster."

"None of your business, old timer."

The old man shrugged. "Won't force you to talk." He had ran his actual hand over the replacements, the arm and the leg he had lost somehow. Grisly injuries that in time, wouldn't matter save for the change of, say, lotion for oil. "These fake arms and legs are quite something, does everyone in your world get something this fancy when they lose a limb?"

Itami took another drag. "More or less. They're pretty common place nowadays." he pointed in the vague direction of his own eyes. "Even new eyes, I'm sure we're taking care of you with a new one later."

The old man nodded. "Yes, in a few months they said."

Bannon's own left eye had been the stopgap between either a.) losing her left eye and b.) replacing it. The eye in her left socket was her own, but repaired in a rather less than ideal transplant for the sake of streamlining the process. A 50/50 gamble between further disaster and being just fine. Worse came to worst, and Doc had been betting on that, was that they were going to rip out her left eye for good and replace it with one being grown back in the states.

Stem cell research had been becoming flexible enough that such an organ was able to be grown over a period of time with the right amount of material.

Such an operation would take Bannon out of the field however and she wasn't going to do that without being ordered to. Chances are Pierce would eventually carry out such order anyway, but not now. Not with everything happening.

"The doctor said that some of these replacement limbs are better than the real thing."

Itami nodded with another drag, a little cough behind it. He started smoking during high school he remembered and he had remembered how bad his lungs probably suffered during then and into college. He had needed it back then and he needed it now. Perhaps he could've gotten a new pair of lungs eventually.

"Even for people like you, there are sporting events which are held and they break speed records all the time." The tenacity of the human condition to do their best even when the chips were down. If only Itami had seen the irony of what he was saying reflected upon himself.

"Olympics. Yes, I've heard about them. We have similar escapades during times of peace… you ever been?"

Itami had shaken his head. "Nah."

"Oh come on, you've got the body of an Olympian. That's what your child tells me."

Itami had taken to the cigarette again. She knew how she talked, how much she admired her father and how he had apparently gained much more in tone and refinement with his body. She would know intimately. He didn't know if she was fucking with him when she had first slid into bed with him naked (Bannon's reaction had been literally dragging the elf out of bed and explaining to her why it was wrong), however the elf had explained it was habit.

Die with the lie though, that was the agreed on duty.

Itami was no fool, he had once thought of Chuka in a way any self-respecting man would've seen a woman of her stripes. A beautiful, precious, rather attractive figure that any of the Special Task Force would've been glad to go up against her curves and appreciate what the Special Region fully had to answer.

A smirk had crossed his lips as he had remembered one particular conversation he and Emerson had one night in Tokyo, before they came here. They spoke of the bed partners that would've been ideal for them, marked by the filter of booze. Itami's description, months later, manifested itself into Chuka Luna Marceau. For Emerson and a man of his particular orientation(s), he said simply that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and his mother told him to see beauty in every person he came across.

Emerson was always a romantic in some way.

"What's forcing your silence, youngster?" Itami had fallen into his thoughts again.

"My "daughter", actually."

A breath had come out of the old man, almost triumphantly. "Thought so."

"Are you falling for that lie too?"

The old man shook his head, even with a smile. "The entire town is in on your lie, Lieutenant Itami."

"Shit." he said, less than enthused, more smoke from his nose and mouth going into the cold air, leaving its stale left behinds over him like a cloud. "The psychiatrist that I met a few minutes ago… that session was supposed to be for me but I ended up talking about my daught-" he was starting to fall for his lie too. "Chuka."

"And what did the psychiatrist say?"

"Revenge is a normal response to trauma, to carry it out varies from case to case." he crossed his arms as he had taken the cigarette out of his mouth, tossing it out into the dark open in front of the hospital. Out at that front had been the mournful monks of the God of the Harvest: one of their own had been in the hospital currently. "Fucking shrinks."

The monks were dressed simply in robes the color of wheat, hoods obscuring their faces as they stood like statues in perpetual prayer.

"Even after all this time, you don't know revenge, Lieutenant Itami?"

A scowl had appeared on the lieutenant's face. "Can you judge me?"

"Yes. Am I not a man of this land who has lost so much when you have come? I've lost so many brothers, so many friends, since you have come here."

"And what do you feel for with revenge?"

The old man had slowly made the fingers on his prosthetic tap against the wood of the bench. They moved as his real fingers did, but the read from mind to body hadn't been as refined yet in the prosthetic. Slowly it would come full circle however. "Sometime revenge comes by itself, and all you need to do is watch."

Itami, he hadn't lost a soldier like Emerson or Masterson did. He didn't know the rage of losing a brother in arms, and yet that unknowing had made Itami not judge the Rangers as they cut their swath across the Empire.

"What if that revenge is against a fire dragon?"

The old man barely paused. "It's probably dead, judging from the talk about what's happened to it."

It was popular conjecture that the Flame Dragon, after its ass kicking and mutilation, had made its depressingly pathetic way back to the Elbe Fiefdom, crashing every few miles or so before disappearing. Those accounts by those who had seen it after it attacked the Koda convoy hadn't been trust worthy, but it was some closure for RCT3, Chuka withstanding.

"You sound so sure."

"I am only one of many thousands who know what this Special Task Force can do. It is the power of Gods, and the Flame Dragon is no god."

Itami scoffed. "Taking it on seems like divine intervention then."

"Don't underestimate what one soldier can do, Lieutenant Itami. The knights of the Empire have slain dragons more dangerous under less pure pretenses."

"I know very well what one soldier can do in the right place in the wrong time."

"Right place in the wrong time…" the old man had let Emerson's favorite applied saying dance on his lips. He seemed to like it. "What does the Special Task Force call you, Itami? I hear of these Hitmen that have done terrible things around this land, Rangers, they are, but their name is different. Hitman…. Such a peculiar name. I thought only crime lords and thugs use assassins."

 _"A wolf."_ Itami knee jerked.

"Hm?"

"Avenger." He looked up into the night. "My callsign is Avenger."

There was a reason why he had been given a new callsign when he returned from Ginza from the Diet. He was still a part of the JSDF SFG and now, he had been told under the veil of secrecy, he wasn't the only one in the Special Region. Avenger was part of a sequence of callsigns which he was a part of: seven in total.

A time had been approaching when he'd have to leave his RTC behind and join the ranks of his pack.

"Avenger…" the old man had stood up with his walking stick, his prostethtic creaking. "Hmph. It is usually those who seek vengeance that use hitmen."

"You sound literal, old timer."

"You know going after that dragon alone with her would be suicide…"

"And going with anyone else? It wouldn't make it any safer. I'd just get more people in danger."

"You should know as a soldier," he started to walk away, looking at his new arm, seeing all the regret, all the pain that that missing limb meant. "there are times where you can't run away. Times when you have to take on a situation, even when you know what you'll lose."

The fist of the prosthetic had closed. "I can't do nothing?"

"You have to do something. If not for her, than for yourself."

Those were the words that the old man wanted to leave Itami with as he slowly hobbled away into the dark of Arnus, but Itami's cigarette had burned between his lips before he gave his parting words. The lieutenant knew, somehow…

"Where'd you lose your limbs, old timer?"

Slowly, very slowly, the old man turned around as he gave his answer, moon light behind him. "I lost them while trying to reclaim Arnus Hill."

Itami did nothing but exchange a stare. A stare between soldiers, enemies no longer. The younger man gave a thoughtful nod as he waved goodbye to the old king. His hand had returned to his side and then cellphone.

A call to Kiss Ass in the dead of night, and yet, when he picked up, he couldn't be happier.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega**_

* * *

Pops had been as a reliable a sergeant major as anyone. He'd been around long enough to know what was up with Itami as he talked, willingly, with Yanagida. He knew how soldiers worked at fifty years at age, especially ones which had been unsure as Itami.

His old hands had snapped batteries into his radio as he attached it to the shoulder strap that came with his combat vest, while he was doing that Itami had taken next to him with his rifle.

They were in a hanger setting up their gear for final checks just shy of the helipads, the Chinook that was about to ferry them out to the Capital again waiting with its beating.

"Pops." Itami had said, the sergeant major turned with a small salute.

"Something wrong Itami?"

"You were there in Korea with Hazama, right?"

When North Korea fell and brought South Korea with it the JSDF was invested in the wellbeing of Japanese persons abroad in Korea. Invested enough that an entire division was mobilized and deployed to Busan to assist the South Korean military and American forces.

The first deployment of the JSDF in wartime in an offensive capacity had resulted in the first combat veterans, and combat casualties, of Japan ever since the Great War.

Kuwahara was one of them.

Before he could answer Yanagida had been on his other side, there only as himself. He was with Itami, for what reason Pops couldn't tell. "He was there at Seoul and Pyongyang."

"And everywhere in between." he was friends with the older Ranger: Ramirez. The former cop had gotten around and had a lot of hidden connections up and down the 7th, especially with Blackburn. He was in Seoul when it all went down and was a part of Blackburn's guerilla force. When the combined forces of America, Japan, and South Korea came to liberate Seoul he picked up a proper kit and fought with that force all the way up to Pyongyang. They had the same battles after Seoul and they understood what it did to a person.

"Lead any troops back then?" Itami had asked.

"I led a platoon during the campaign, yes. Wasn't enlisted but the CO and the XO got shot by a sniper when they got lost walking back from GHQ before the Americans landed at Incheon." Pops had stepped back, taller than both men as he looked at both of them. "Something wrong?"

"Sergeant Major Kuwahara, Lieutenant Itami will not be coming with you to the capital. A family issue has come up."

Pops had lowered is brow at Yanagida. He wasn't stupid. "It's Chuka and the Flame Dragon, isn't it?"

Itami had turned away, ashamed, his lips straight as Yanagida kept talking. "Sergeant Major, for the duration of this coming deployment we are handing off command of RCT3 for you in Itami's absence. By our estimates he will reconvene with you in two weeks time. Any problems?"

"Don't have a choice, do I?"

Yanagida had smiled as Itami loaded mags into his plate carrier, ignoring it all. "Is there a problem?"

He shook his head. "No. I just hope you know what you're doing Itami… still, all things considered, _it's what I would do_ for my daughter."

The words had taken Itami off guard as the sergeant major tapped his shoulder, a hand out for a shake. A smile was there on the lieutenant's face. "Thank you Pops."

"See you in a week. I'll fill the rest in."

Itami had looked over to Kuribayashi. She had an M4 rifle, painted like Loke's. The Type 89s they used had STANAG magazines so finding compliant accessories wasn't hard. She was embracing something…

"Keep an eye on Sergeant Kuribayashi, would you?"

Pops had looked over his shoulder with disdain. "I have to do more than just keep an eye on her… besides, they don't care what she does. No one's looking at her when she does what she does. Everyone's just looking at the Americans or you."

"What do you mean Pops?"

It was the same the world over, Pops knew. Even in Korea. "It's always the world that wants the Americans to mess up. We want to see them mess up."

"But why me?"

Yanagida had a lot to celebrate about recently, and one of those things had been this reaffirmation: "I guess you've become _another American_ Itami."

 _But what did that mean?_ the Man in Green, the Hero of Ginza, had so desperately thought.

He didn't think it right that only Americans could fight for their daughter, to break bounds for their family and love. They did not have that right alone, it would've been selfish of them to think that… but yet…

It wasn't the Americans that gave themselves that burden. It was the observations of the world that gave America who it was: the loud, the big smiling and the firm handshakes, the burden of holding what was conceived as Western civilization on its shoulders unapologetically like a nation of egotistical Jesus Christs.

Just another American Itami was called. Just another American he would be if it meant saving Chuka.

If it was a curse he had taken it, swallowed it, let it into his blood and become bane of the modern world.

"Walk us out to the choppers." Pops had tapped Itami's shoulder once, and they followed as RCT3 funneled out of the hanger and toward the Chinook, waiting for them.

Unconsciously he had fallen next to Kurokawa in the stride, the gust of the Chinook blowing toward them.

He sucked his lips, his pride, his ego, his wrongs, into his stomach. "You were right, Sergeant Kurokawa."

Her hair still hadn't grown back, but it was getting there. Something remained however: the low scowl on her face, the slant of her eyebrows as she ignored her apathetic lieutenant.

"You were right about Chuka." Itami continued. She still did not pay heed as the gusts of wind came closer, the Chinook slowly casting a shadow over them. "You were right. I should've given her treatment, I should've given her over to Doc and you!"

She ignored him still, her boots touching the cold metal of the chopper as one of the first in, Itami stopping at the loading ramp as she stared back, at him.

 _ **"I'm doing what Itami would do."**_ She mouthed those words at him underneath the inescapable drone of the chopper's blades, his squad all bypassing him. Some caring, some uncaring, all of them relegated to what war they were fighting now.

 _ **"It's not what I would do dammit!"**_

She turned away, her black, almost ebony hair waving out, discarding the opinion of her lieutenant. He did not deserve her attention, her apology. Not yet. Perhaps not at all.

Not after all that he had made her do and made her witness.

Though she was not above it all, even as she tried to punish her lieutenant with silence.

The bones of any warrior were beatened and battered by, not the enemy, but themselves. The punishment she had given herself had painted her as just another soldier. When she had been in training to become a medic in the JSDF, her mistake, as was the theme recently, was her teacher. She had thought she simply inherited the lessons he had given. Instead she had taken on an aspect of him in the regret she felt in this war: this occupation.

As she had once told the so called Father of Sin, her teacher in the JSDF, brought in as a guest, had been an American veteran of Afghanistan.

Kuribayashi had saluted him once before she boarded. "Not joining us, lieutenant?"

Itami couldn't answer, but Pops had taken the leash and patted her back up. "No he is not, Sergeant Kuribayashi."

Yanagida had tipped up his glasses. "Call it a secret mission if you may, Sergeant Kuribayashi."

She rolled her eyes. She was far beyond believing anything of Itami at this point.

All of RCT3 had looked back at the ramp, staring at Itami, their supposed leader, be left behind as he stood there just short of it all.

Tomita had stood up as Pops came forward, without Itami. "You coming, lieutenant?" he asked aloud. "Or is something distracting you?"

They all store at him with the judgment they had. He was a soldier, he was a good man, he was a bad man, he was a reckless man; whatever it was, and it had been that and more, they were silent as he stood before them all and had to justify his abandoning.

But they knew why he was doing this now. "I have to do this."

And as Itami had backed off with Yanagida as the chopper lifted up, RCT3 left at a loss for words, giving their best wishes and best of lucks to their lieutenant, for they knew better than most Chuka's plight, they had hardly realized they were not the only ones to bear witness to Itami's decision.

* * *

 _"This is Grey Fox Four to Grey Fox Actual, you copy Grey Fox Actual?"_

 _"Grey Fox Actual, go ahead."_

 _"Avenger has jumped. We are go for Operation Fortunate Son."_

 _"Roger, I'll meet them at the armory."_

* * *

 _"Hey, Sergeant Lumaban."_

 _"What is it Poindexter?"_

 _"Itami just hopped off the back of an outbound. I think the bastard's going to go through with it."_

 _"…Copy. Gather the fireteam plus Alton and get to the Fromar Keep. We're going to show these Hooahs who's actually running the show here."_

* * *

She wasn't allowed on the helipads, that was what the JSDF had said as they barred her off from saying goodbye to her father supposedly. Her depression had descended into, gradually, a grating aggravation which the JSDF wouldn't recognize, but perhaps a Marine would've.

It was the face worn by a woman in a burqa, so desperately wanting to see the body of her child, her husband, only to be kept out by the Marines that killed them.

It was the emotion wielded by a child who had seen his livelihood destroyed, his life ruined, by the Coalition of the Willing.

The desperation of an entire people who would blame then Men in Tan another world away.

 _ **"Please! Let me through! I need to see my father!"**_

Chuka tried to push forward, only to meet the body of one of the MPs. "I'm sorry Miss Marceau, I can't let any civilians past this point."

Her eyes had intensified in anger as they shone a mystic blue, the calm of that color contrasting to the sound of her fists forming, the scabs on her knuckles breaking to bleed as she stepped toward the MP again, even against the backdrop of concrete barriers and an APC, its gunner looking on concerned.

The others had clicked the safeties of their rifles off. _**"Miss Marceau!"**_

 _ **"I need to see my father!"**_ She had screamed at them as that mystical energy had balled into her fists, creating an aura in her hand that held no secret as to what she intended to do with it.

How easy a lie falls apart under threat, how easy a gun rises at even a sixteen year old looking young woman. _**"That motherfucking Otaku isn't your father!"**_

The Browning in the APC had been locked back.

Her hand had risen up, like claws, and before the JSDF would learn of the might of children that had lost those who loved her father had come alive again in, to her, was a bear hug.

Thank god she had seen it as a bear hug as she sobbed into his shoulder, the JSDF guards hardly at ease until the blue flame in her hands petered out.

"Why were you leaving me father!" the pleading, the want of an answer, it was cried out with the tears of a daughter who didn't realize she had lost her father once. All that hidden emotion within her rotting away and taking most of her mind with her.

"Shush, shush." Itami had said calmly into her scalp and blonde hair. "I was just saying goodbye to them, is all. Nothing more."

She didn't believe it, not when she had looked up, still attached to him, with those water logged eyes full of pain. "Father?"

"Your smile is important to me, I won't ever leave you." and that was, for once, the truth. He had taken the constant red scarf around her neck, the last remaining piece of clothes from when they found her, and wiped her stained cheeks with it.

Puppy eyes, full of hope in front of what really had been inside.

In another world, in another life, Itami would've seen what most had saw as they stood there on the concrete of Camp Omega. A father, pseudo or not, holding his tearful daughter and comforting her. In this world however he had seen what Bannon saw, what Masterson saw, what Emerson kept himself so busy as to avoid.

He saw a heart of horror yet to be faced, and it was his horror.

But what else do soldiers do but put on the mask and be who they need to be.

"I don't know what I'd do without you. This place is changing so fast, and there's so much happening, you seem like you're the only one I know that knows what they're doing nowadays." she continued to sob.

The way out: "Then let's… well, uh, get away for a while. How about to the south? I hear there's no war there."

"I always wanted to visit the elves from Schwarz! I hear their home is so immensely vast a million of us could live there! A vacation home maybe?" she had broke out of her sadness easy enough because of her father, not noticing Yanagida creep up behind them.

"Yeah, a trip will do us good. We'll just have to go pack some gear because, well, you know, the South is dangerous." That would've explained all the gear he was planning to carry.

"You're right! I should ask Auntie Bannon for her rifle!"

Itami had patted her head again as she was led into the Humvee. "I think I'll do you one better and get Auntie Bannon herself to come along with some of her… friends." Itami hadn't believed what he had been saying, but there was no other way to say it. "Yeah, I'll have her bring some friends."

* * *

Outside the debriefing room Emerson had seen what everyone who just so happened to be looking at RCT3 go off saw. In between the details of communicating with a slave owner who had been secretly part of a monopoly in the region and the gold mine he had owned, he had gazed out and saw the Man in Green hop off.

Rory was there too, also being briefed with the other field officers and those who would benefit from the information. She was fully engrossed in her role, and if it kept her from being herself it was a positive for the entire task force.

"Major Sevson. If I may, can I step out for a second?" Emerson had feigned looking at his watch. Rory had tilted her head as she broke speech with the slave owner, politely given a seat with a few other of the more Lingua Franca familiar officers. It was an honest conversation at the very least about the local economy and how the worth of a slave.

Sevson had looked up from his desk politely, if not uncaring. "Go ahead Emerson."

"Thank you sir."

He had gone out three times already with his Rangers, liberally taking a few from the pool on the ops at the more anomalous areas which the Special Task Force didn't want their regular GIs to touch:

A farm which had been using slaves to act as taste testers on a particularly satisfying, but occasionally comatose inducing, spring.

Another gladiator arena just west of the Blue Sea's coast, people had recognized him as Kay, and so he had used his fake ears again.

And, most recently, an estate owned by a mage up in the hills that was using his slaves as human test subjects in entirely beneficial ways, save for the occasional mistake which made things go horribly wrong. Lelei had recognized the name but it didn't help his case to the Special Task Force as the slaves were let go of.

He wasn't exactly fond of the idea of letting all these slaves free at once, that and especially letting them back into the Corridor, but he perhaps knew better what slavery was.

When President Lincoln's Emancipation came and the American Civil War come and gone, the sudden destruction of what had been the Confederate South and the sudden release of the slaves caused thirty million more people to the strain of a battered society. Reconstruction wouldn't have been pretty anyway, but with the free men and women now looking for work they often found themselves back in the work of those that owned them.

To free people was right, Emerson knew without doubt, but to do nothing more than just free them would be a wrong, gross condescending move for the Task Force.

But his complaints about the system were unheard by the Japanese. At the end of the day he was just a captain who had always been in the wrong place at the right time.

That day he just so happened to be looking at the wrong place at the right time to catch what he saw.

Itami, someone else, the unmistakable blond glow of Chuka. His eyes had squinted as he looked out and how that other figure lead Itami and Chuka to a Humvee and drive off down into the Corridor, into Italica.

Masterson was in another briefing room right now giving his present team a rundown on the situation up north: where they were going for this next deployment. A city had gone dark for half a year and they were going to check it out. The rest, meaning Team One, Bannon, and several stay behinds from Team Two, were left at the Keep…

He went for his radio.

"This is Hitman Actual to 1-1 Actual. How copy Bannon?"

"Five by five. Standing by. Need us Actual? Over." She was always sharp on the draw.

"Hitman Actual. Negative. Itami just jumped ship. I think you know who he's coming to for help. Over."

"Hard copy. Over." There was no emotion her voice. Just business. It disappointed Emerson for a second.

"Do you know what he is going to ask you to do?" the captain dropped the formality of radio comms, Bannon's hard, scratchy breaths coming through rather distinctly now.

"He wants Red dead."

"Do you remember what kind of MO we have here in this Special Region, Sergeant Bannon?"

"We are free to deploy as we wish as we deem necessary to the mission of the Special Task Force, and any orders from Overlord is merely a consideration in practice. We are the scouts of this Special Region for our nation."

They had a field day with that modus operandi, but now it gave them a choice.

Right or wrong, a distraction and a personal mission. Rangers didn't go on missions like the one Itami was going to come to them about.

Then again Rangers didn't play spy in the capital of Roman societies.

"Do what you think is best Sergeant Bannon. I trust you enough to do what I would approve of."

"You know I'm still obligated to follow your command." There was something innocent in Bannon's words. Something that even Emerson could appreciate if he had been like the officer that trained them.

"You know our Modus Operandi in this region Bannon, you go where you're needed with a justifiable excuse. Whether that be tackling on a noted threat or protecting other Special Task Force personnel." there was a strained silence as Emerson went for his e-cigar, lighting it, blowing, the sound of his sucking audible behind the radio as the two Rangers spoke without words for a moment.

"It's just gonna happen once sir."

"I'm not worried about you not listening to me Bannon. Just make sure that if you go out there, those that follow you come back alive. Remember, I am responsible for all of you in the end." A piece of his Bronx accent had broken through, the one that came out only when he was being strained.

"Captain, I'll take some people from Team Two for this upcoming mission they got me going on. You're free to take everyone else."

Bannon had stared deep into her mind at that one question of the hour: _"What would Itami do?"_

Perhaps now was the time to ask someone else.

"What would you do, captain?"

Emerson saw the dark irony of it. "…Bannon, I'm needed in this debriefing. I'll support whatever choice you make."

 _ **"Kay."**_ she knew he was dodging the question, she had known him, known him better than most. She hadn't approved of him wanting to become a politician but he was a man of insatiable drive. That drive, after all, perhaps most tellingly, resulted in the dead at the Emperor's feet so brazenly.

 _ **"I'd hang that fucking dragon's head over my fireplace."**_ The cruelty, the burn, it broke through his voice as he gave his answer without thinking. A low breath escaped him as Bannon felt that anger on the other end. He had felt for Chuka too and known what Bannon knew was right and wrong so desperately it hurt. "We've faced that dragon before, Lisa. In the end we came out as the victors."

"Keep talking Kay." She needed to hear more, to know what her captain felt, not as an American soldier, but as an Imperial.

He kicked at a piece of dirt, come out of his boots on the reflective tiled floor. "In the arena, when a gladiator is bleeding on the floor and the one that remains standing is over him, it is the man that remains that is given ownership of the life of the loser." he had chuckled at himself as he had sat on the window sill. "I guess you should hate me, Sergeant Bannon, I own a lot of lives back in Akusho."

"That dragon owes me its life." she had agreed.

" _ **Then take it.**_ " She respected Emerson more as a captain than as a friend, at least when compared to him and Masterson. They had their moments however.

"Roger that, Kristian."

"Take care of my men, and take care of yourself. Ou-… wait."

"Huh?" Another consideration, Emerson had caught himself and her. Bannon was liable to tunnel vision he knew.

"Make sure you call Cam before you go on and do this crap, alright? I'm taking him out on the next deployment and I don't need him worrying."

Bannon had patted her knuckles against the ground, fighting the urge to run them across her covered eye. The captain was right however. It was only fair. He deserved that much, if not more. "I will."

"Good. Hitman Actual out."

The shadow of a halberd had been over his head as he put his radio back in his pocket. He wasn't really as spooked as he had been anymore by her, not when the locals of Akusho had thought of him as her equal eventually. As much as he tried to deny the voices that would scream at him from the arena stands, from his mind, had told him otherwise.

If he was going to be punished, this would be his punish: to be made into her image.

"Rory." he had said quietly as he looked to her with a nod then out the window. She had joined him

"Jay Kay." she had hopped on the window sill for seating. "Been a while since we've had a one on one."

Emerson crossed his arms as he leaned forward, also putting himself on the sill. "We had one on ones?"

She was speaking English amazingly, not the English of Wilbur that had been becoming the norm, but the English of America. It didn't matter though, Lingua Franca had been easy enough to learn for the 7th MEU and the Rangers, especially since most of them had gone through the trouble of learning Japanese.

Emerson especially, his skills in linguistics at that point, astoundingly, were crooked, but more natural than most.

"How are you doing, Emerson?"

He continued with his e-cigar before he answered her.

Drag, blow, contemplation. "Better than I should be."

She chuckled. "I remember when I used to hang around the capital. I had a lot of… fun, back when Molt was started out."

"They let you run around that place, taking your quota without regard, didn't they?"

Rory tucked in her knees. "Not too different from what this Special Task Force is having me do actually… A little looser in control, but the same." she rested her chin on the top of her kneecaps as she slacked her back. "They remember me over there, don't they?"

Emerson nodded. "I visited Emroy's temple, they had a shrine to you."

"Why'd you go to his halls?" she asked, sincerely.

"I was spilling so much blood with the gladiators they wouldn't let me back in until I gave some of that to Emroy's fountain."

A fountain of blood had been before Emroy's alter in the Capital's place of worship for him. Emerson had donated his share, if only to please the locals. He held up his hand for Rory to see the fresh mark of self-harm and self-bleeding.

"Ah, such a child." Rory had reached out to his hand, but Emerson reeled back, shaking his head no. Rory had only puffed in some disappointment, taking her own before showing its backside to him. "Emroy's most veteran followers cut along the back of their hands. Less pain."

"Is that so?"

"I was one." Rory didn't have scars in her tenure as an apostle. That was courtesy of her healing effects granted to her. However as she had leaned in and gave Emerson a closer look at the soft skin of a child he had seen the faded marks of obvious scarring.

Nine century old scars.

Nine centuries of bearing her duty.

The younger man couldn't even fathom that longevity, and yet he had felt like he himself had lived a hundred years with his battles so far.

Drag, blow, a question. "Rory, can I be straight with you?"

"Really? Itami told me you were something else." she teased. Emerson hadn't taken the joke lightly, no reaction coming, a gaze that Rory had found herself uncomfortable being under. "Fine."

" _Have you considered me your replacement?"_

Rory had closed her eyes as the words hit her, as if taking in the smells, the sounds, the majesty of a world that wasn't just a hall in the Special Task Force Joint HQ. Another drag, another vanilla scented and tasted blow.

She had squeezed her thighs together once as answered. "Where did this question come from, Emerson?"

"The crowds of Akusho."

She had pursed her lips as she had looked out at the Corridor. "Do you want to be an apostle?"

The answer came hard and fast. "God no."

"I wouldn't force it on you. Gods wouldn't, and when I ascend, if you still think the same, I wouldn't bother you if you remained here, in this world." Rory was creepy when prompted, murderous, an enigma wrapped in a nine hundred year mystery, and yet… She breathed out a cold breath. "We all get what we deserve however."

She was human at her very core. She would always be.

"To me, it sounds like a punishment: being an apostle." he had breathed out with a cloud.

Rory had motioned as if she was smoking herself at Emerson. Her words about the topic matter Emerson had in the back of his head recently had rewarded her this: Emerson giving her electronic cigar for one go.

She had took it like old hat, their smoke combining before disappearing in thin air. "Don't think all my nine hundred and sixty one years have been pleasant, Emerson."

His cigar was returned, he wiping the mouth piece before putting it back in his own mouth. "You're stronger than people make you out to be, Rory, I'll tell you that."

"You understand me better than most." The admittance hadn't really bothered the man in question. "Because of that I think you also know that the same question might occasionally pass by people you know."

"Do say?" She was right.

"I dream of Italica Emerson, and all who fought in it."

"Figures." he looked out at the disappearing dot that had been that Humvee dashing toward Italica. "Itami would make a horrible apostle, you know."

She chuckled once again, leaning on the glass, her impossibly dark hair against the cold of pane. "He's your friend, Emerson, and thus more prepared than most… That and he is qualified in his own special way."

"In what? Getting his dick excited whenever he sees a little thing like you?"

Rory had risen up and patted Emerson's cheek once, like a pet. "Did Itami just abandon his mission?"

Emerson had felt the unnatural cold of her fingers imprinted on his cheeks as he responded. "You know too?"

"Hand me my halberd, would you?" All she left him with was a smile as she disappeared, rather dramatically, opening that same window she was leaning on and flying out to in front of the GHQ. Her job as a chief of police hadn't left her any less limber to preform her acrobatics.

With some careful maneuvering Emerson had been able to shove her mystic weapon out the window to her expectantly, she blowing a kiss his way before dashing off. The absurdity of events had made sure he hadn't realized he had actually picked up her halberd with little difficulty.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Italica - The Fromar Keep**_

* * *

As Emerson had signed out Bannon had almost turned over the channel to Masterson, however this was a private conversation. Something that went beyond military code. She took out her personal phone, the Corridor had cell service to an extent.

Emerson had caught her shooting at the breeze, looking over at Camp Kilgore's activity from her perch at the Fromar Keep. The balcony connecting all of the bedrooms had been a rather quaint affair, if not one where most of the Rangers had hung out.

They were a solitary bunch naturally, but she needed even more as she scooted away from the closest Ranger: Black had been focusing his optics on the balcony.

She hadn't hesitated as she dialed Masterson's number. It was the same one as it had been before they were enlisted. She never saved it. She didn't have the heart to do so given her plans in the military, but it was imprinted in her mind even now, after all these years.

"Cameron."

"Hey Lisa….? Something up?" the innocence in his voice was emphasized by the sound of gear being loaded and guns being locked and racked. He was going out on mission. "What up with the phone? This is like, the first time someone's called me with this in like, a year."

Her fingers had curled at the nape of her neck. She hadn't noticed that silver cross necklace given to her years before much, but now, when she had given it away to a boy that needed it more, she felt the absence.

"Do you remember that time you told me about how, in Mexico, you almost chased after this white van that snagged a bystander from the street in Juarez?"

Juarez had been one of the US Army's first forays into Mexico when military intervention came. It became one of America's juggernauts in the War on Drugs, even when it wasn't exactly the most pure vision of a Mexico renewed.

On the other end Masterson had sat down on a bench in the staging area, the rest of his Rangers tuning out as they busied themselves.

He remembered the event well. A late night walk in Juarez during his first deployment as, not a Ranger, but a regular rifleman in the US Army had been something that stood out in his mind. Perhaps a reason why he took Itami's order easily.

Long story short a bystander a block away from Masterson that one night, off duty, had been snatched and grabbed by a white van. A cliché turned real life as the masked men inside held no secrets to their intention.

He had radioed it in quick, breaking out running toward the van in the middle of the night, however, to all his dismay, he was told to stand down and stop chasing after it before another gang banger got an easy shot a US military personnel.

There was a parallel Bannon wanted to bring up.

"Yeah." Masterson ran his other hand of his forehead before rubbing his temple. "Why? You gonna finally tell me I shoulda ran after them despite orders?"

Bannon had stifled an amused sound before remembering why she was calling. "No, Cam. It's just… just I'm not a 100% sure, but Itami's coming running, and he's gonna probably ask us to…"

Masterson's mind had sunken back into himself as a cold pit in his throat dropped to his heart. His sarcastic self had risen to cope. "That son bitch gonna ask you to become a Marine and hunt that dragon."

"When you told me that story," Bannon had clenched the fist at her neck tighter as she shook her head. "Hun', when you told me that story I was mad as hell at you for going after something so… so meaningless, but shit, I understand now."

A man the next morning had come up with all but his torso cut up. A message to the US how acts such as that could perpetuate even under their "watchful gaze". Masterson didn't hold no guess about who that unlucky man was.

As Bannon had understood him in that story, Masterson would fill in her role.

There was a pause, but then a hurried response. "Well I'm glad you called, cause I'll be coming-"

"Cam." she stopped him with his name, starting to pace across the balcony. "Look, we'll be gone for a week at most. Emerson can't have both his team leads gone for that long."

"Lisa, you know sure as shit I ain't care about that." he had responded fast, too fast.

"This is just another mission Cam, just another. You don't need to worry about me going off getting killed. I'm bringing my team and some of yours. This ain't Iraq 2014."

"Dammit Lisa, Iraq's a country we've broken down a thousand times over! Who knows what kind of anime fantasy bullshit is real out there!"

" _ **I'm a Ranger**_ , Cameron. I can handle it." From Mogadishu, to Sinjar, to Seoul; from Just Cause to Open Wind, if anyone had the pedigree to survive the Special Region, it was her.

A throaty breath from an unfinished, kneejerk thought had come from Masterson. "I can't stop you, can I?" the hopelessness. Bannon had heard it before, years ago.

"Nothing short of stopping me and Itami at gunpoint… besides, I'm sure we would be having this same discussion if Captain Emerson," she had cursed herself for keeping her etiquette. "…if Kristian switched our places."

"…Well, shit, you're probably right."

"I know." A stressed pause, the feeling of resignation over both of them.

"But still, I feel like I still gotta do something."

"Tell me to be strong, to take care of your people. Tell me that you're going to serve Kay alright these next few days. Tell me that, in a week or so, we'll be alright."

"Well, you kinda took the words out of my mouth… honey." He had played with the full version of her pet word. No one had questioned why Bannon had kept that word in her vocabulary after it all. Perhaps it was something from her childhood, something another lover called her, something left behind from her days of wandering. Whatever the case was Bannon had used it for those she held in her heart, or, at the very least, viewed positively.

"Hey," she almost whispered. "I know you mean it and more." Her forehead had felt the screen of her phone in tiredness, in some wistful emotion she didn't want to name.

"Well, shucks, I'll miss ya'." Masterson's own flustered talking had been the words that made Bannon sit down, a smile across her face. "God dammit this is making me feel all domesticated and such."

"I'll see you soon, _**hun'**_."

As she had pressed the red button on her Blackberry to hush the call she had leaned back in the chair, the gravity of her situation setting in, only to be alleviated by two hands at her shoulder blades of the furred variety.

She had instinctually raised her free hand up to cup the cheek of the feline maid. "You're such a sweetheart, Persia…." her face had blanked as she realized how quiet she usually was. "How much of that did you hear?"

Persia merely smiled at Bannon. "I heard nothing." Her fingers had dug into her shoulder blades and back rather soothingly. "You look tense though, and Kurata rather likes it when I do this to him."

Bannon had hummed in her raspy throat as she felt the pleasure of some knots in her back being let out. "There are some stresses you can't really massage out of a system, Myui."

"Well that merely requires a different technique." Persia's voice had gotten sultry as her cat-like nose nuzzled into Bannon's neck, but the woman had seized up and immediately stood up.

"Not my style, Persia." she had hurriedly excused, but still beckoning the maid forward to take her hands, her fingernails well sharpened for their secondary, retractable uses. "Does Kurata appreciate those kind of advances though?"

Women talk of course as Persia had rattled herself with a blush, her hands still held by Bannon. "Let's just say we've advanced together."

Loke had happened upon one rather noisy night in RCT3's dorm in the knight hall of the Keep during some restless night. Certain eavesdropping in the bath by Bannon with Loke and the other female members of RCT3 and Hitman had revealed that Kurata and Persia were… insatiable.

Bannon had shook her head in some disapproval, but she couldn't be anything but happy for the maid that had treated her so well. "You've seen Kay's presentations, right? Just be careful."

"If there's anything you can teach me, Miss Bannon, I'd be willing to listen." she winked.

"Uh, well, I've never actually-" she stopped herself. "Can you go gather my people in the dining hall?"

The feline bowed as she gathered the Hitmen, leaving Bannon alone, looking out at this empire of her own. The Corridor and Italica's rebuilding and subsequent lording out of land by her and Lelei had been astronomically successfully.

Her parents, for all that they did teach Bannon about the legality of property values and stocks, did much more to teach her on how to avoid the regulations and liquidations of certain, suspicious, endeavors of the sort she and Lelei were doing here.

Old habits die hard, but Bannon was young, and the only thing that was gonna die soon she had thought was an oversized lizard.

* * *

If there was one thing that kept Hitman afloat in the Special Region it was the knowledge that they were, in practice, special operators. And that had meant they were bad ass motherfuckers when they didn't think too hard about it.

They were the some of the Army's Special Forces. The unit that pulled the Deltas and Navy SEALs out of dodge when they were in over their head and actually had to fight a war instead of whacking nameless insurgent leaders. Dare say they were the reliable ones, the ones that fought the wars that the world had forgotten how to fight while remembering what kind of world they were in.

In world that had forgotten what a front line had looked like it was the Rangers that bridged the SOF community together with regular forces as Iran waged its final war against the world in the name of the Middle East and North Korea collapsed.

This alone however wasn't just posturing and motivational unit pride. The War on Terror had taken most of America's SOCOM Units with it, and at the end of the day there were only so many to be called upon.

Rangers led the way, and as such Itami had been greeted with a rather dramatic posing of Hitman as he opened the doors into the Fromar Keep.

As if they were posed for a group picture they were there before Itami and Chuka. Eight Rangers, cut across those that stayed behind from Team Two and Bannon's own Team One. Staff Sergeant Bannon herself had stood center, posed defiantly, arms crossed with her Enfield and her duty rifle hanging on her back: Masterson's Stetson on her head and her eyes hidden behind dimmed goggles.

Loke had shook her kit ready as her MP5 was cradled in her arms, the camo between them all making them seem to amalgamate into one, woodland form with tanned plate carriers and rigs. They were all ready and loaded right then and there, Black having taken a knee: the exoskeleton around his leg still there along with the marksman rifle in his arms.

Harris had kept his M60 over his back as Ramirez stood, almost indifferent about everything, ready to wage another man's war once again. At this point he had been resigned to the fate. Nutt too had stood ready, a cheeky smile across his bearded face like a true special forces operator. Doc had been the opposite in terms of hair, but he had shared the same resignation with Ramirez. They needed him there. If Chuka was going then a medical professional would've been nice to have around, whether to put a bullet in her head or put her under anesthetic.

" _ **We've been waiting for you!"**_ Loke had almost yelled at the man as he stood before them all. He was on their level now. Those who had taken a knee had gotten up and closer to Itami, ready to listen, ready to kneel again as they were being used as they were taught to do so.

Bannon, Loke, Harris, Doc, Nutt, Black and Ramirez had all been there for Itami. Behind them more of Team One that Itami hadn't been acquainted with. Specialist Barbara Annel and Corporal Damien Ortiz.

He always had to remind himself that there were those in Hitman that were nameless and faceless to him. Most of Masterson's Team Two had been unidentifiable to him, and even then from Bannon's group there were those that he had not known.

Of all the things Itami was he had not been a man who didn't care. For he knew all of those that had been tasked under him and knew their names, their dreams.

Working with faceless Americans was scary, but that was the point of war. To dehumanize yourself was to survive, and Chuka was not surviving. Then again he hadn't been fighting Americans and Hitman hadn't just been any type of Americans.

It was poetic almost that they were so diverse, so varied in their blood and skin. America had been the melting pot as it always had been, a claim that they never disavowed amid the explosion of Civil Rights riots, refugee talks, and the explosion of anti-Islamic rhetoric that dragged America into the Middle East for the final time. One of the Hitmen, one of Masterson's riflemen, had even been a refugee from Kurdistan.

Still, in the middle of battle, they shed who they were and instead became one

"I'm offended we've never made the acquaintance Lieutenant Itami." Annel had offered a hand with Ortiz. "Specialist Annel. This is Corporal Ortiz."

Itami had known Ortiz better than Annel. He had given words of condolences over losing his girlfriend. On some measure, he understood. His separation from Risa hadn't been at all a happy affair. Still the tribulations of service often separated people.

Itami extended his hand as he shook both of theirs. "Ah, it's been nice to work with you so far."

Annel's reddish brown curls had been growing long, long enough that they were in a ponytail and poking from under her helmet, bouncing as she looked away from Itami. "Has it?"

"More or less." Itami pursed his lips up for a second.

Annel had snickered. "Well, not too many people can say they've worked hand in hand with a Ranger chalk." she was a proud Ranger. Most of them were, however she had taken an aspect of Shino's admiration of them into her heart.

"Chalk?" Itami had repeated the foreign word that Annel had said.

"Platoon in Ranger talk. Hitman is a Chalk."

Suppressors had already been on their rifles, their combat rigs new, combat helmets more akin to those worn by Special Forces as opposed to the biker-like helmets that some Army units used during the 90s. Very, very slowly they were turning into wolves in their proper clothing.

"And right now, you've got some of that Ranger chalk at your disposal." Bannon had held her rifle across her chest with one hand, the other limply pointing at Itami. "Do what you will."

For all the grief Bannon had given him earlier… "What? You approve of this sort of thing?"

Bannon had adjusted the gaiter around her neck as she nodded. "I know that look in your eye, Youji." her voice was dark. It always had been because of her condition, but it was now dark because of what she was saying and what she was promising. " _ **You're scared**_. Scared for Chuka. Scared for your men. Scared for your life."

Itami blinked as he unconsciously stepped back. "I'm gonna ask you to kill a legendary beast, a dragon, for crying out loud. Wouldn't you be scared?"

For the last half hour in the dining room the Hitman that had decided to go with Itami had been reviewing the footage from the original encounter, captured on the Hitman leads' cameras. The beast was only that: a frail animal. An organic being liable to gunfire and explosive applications the same as any other machine of war or living thing.

To quote a fictional operator: If it bled, they could kill it, and they knew it could bleed gallons.

"I'll be scared about what would happen to us if we didn't deal with this. Most of all you should be scared of us if you hold us back from doing what Lieutenant Itami would supposedly do."

The idea of a Lieutenant Itami had been two things. To Japan, Lieutenant Itami was a brave and courageous man who represented his nation proudly in the Special Region. To Hitman, he was a lazy man who was in the wrong place at the right time.

To put it frankly Bannon was done doing what Itami had done: doing nothing, and had instead gone to do what Itami should've done.

"I didn't think you'd like to partner up with someone whose codename was Avenger. I thought you were above the concept."

Hell was in her voice as she shot back. That was the reason why Itami had still come despite it all. He needed the Rangers and what they brought. She walked forward as Emerson did when he confronted Yanagida, seconds after leaving the chopper flight from the Capital.

The Rangers had walked with her in the same way. "For six months we've wanted _**revenge**_ , Itami. Wanted revenge for Tracey's family. Revenge for who we lost that day in Ginza. Revenge for all those that this Empire has treated wrongly. It is in everything we do Itami, and we can't stop it. So please, don't preach to us about revenge."

That one dreaded form of an American military unit in full sync was a sight to behold. It was in defense of this very town did Pina first see that in action, and, for just a fleeting moment as Itami stood his ground against the approaching Rangers, he had wanted to scream, to yelp, in the fear of American special forces and the necessary evil that they were.

"You're an officer, Itami. Give us our orders."

It almost as if Chuka didn't exist to the Rangers, they had ignored her, if only because that was what they needed. This was a war fought by soldiers and soldiers alone. The horrors of war were not to be extended to the civilians if they had any choice in the matter.

Itami stood there, mouth slightly agape as Bannon almost dared him. However she was earnest in her request as the Rangers waited. Orders were orders, regardless of who they came from. It was only then he realized what it meant to be in charge when he had a mission he needed, but more importantly, wanted carried out.

He squared his shoulders and closed his fists. "Hitman!"

The Rangers snapped straight. "Your orders Lieutenant Itami?" Bannon had bore straight ahead, not even looking at the man.

"Effective immediately you are to prepare and embark on an incursion into the Elbe Fiefdom in order to neutralize an HVT of which you have already been briefed on. You will be led by me until further notice. Is that understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the Rangers sounded like wolves barking, Chuka slightly hiding behind Itami as the sound of affirmation came and went.

He held Chuka's hand as he turned around, the other motioning for them all to follow. "We're oscar mike!"

"Gonna start this party without us?" A British voice, a freckled man with oil in his skin and heart. Doing his duty was what he did best, and he had a feeling that doing what he had wanted to do all this time would've been great.

It had caused everyone to trip in their stride.

"Guess someone cried havoc." Ramirez had been more than observant of the Men in Tan, led by a British man and a Filipino woman. The hell hounds of the 7th MEU had been the Marines themselves.

A five man fireteam, the one specifically assigned to Warlord 1-3, led by a Sergeant Perla Lumaban, a boonie cap over her deep black hair, an M16 off to her side. She was a tall woman, taller than Bannon, but also distinctly younger. In her eyes however had been an old soul who had seen war more than the Ranger.

She had approached them, side by side with Yao and Wilbur, and stuck out a hand to Bannon and Itami.

"Sergeant Lumaban. Assassin 4-3. Assigned to Kingdom Come as security detail…" she said, her voice a refined one. "You look like men and women on a mission."

Ramirez had frozen up as he had seen the keffiyeh she wore. Seeing was believing in the Special Region and a phantom from Iran had appeared before him.

Bannon had shaken the hand once, hard. "Here to stop us?"

She hadn't answer as her face was bent into a serious frown, her thin eyebrows furrowing as she saw Chuka at Itami's side, hiding behind him.

As if coaxing a beaten dog Lumaban had passed by Bannon, her hands out once again as she took a knee in front of Itami, Chuka coming out slowly with her own hands out.

"Perla?"

Lumaban had smiled. "Hello Chuka." she had taken her hands in her own and ran her thumbs across the scars on her knuckles.

Chuka breathed out tiredly. "Perla, I told you not to worry about me, I told you how I got hurt. Just an accident."

"Excuse me, who are you?" Itami had appeared over Chuka, hands on his hips, perplexed at the dark Asian woman with the keffiyeh who had apparently known Chuka. Bannon's eye had glanced over her golden chain bracelet. On it had been a golden cross that had been all too familiar. The Ranger ghosted her fingers over the nape of her neck and remembered where her necklace had been.

"You're not the only one allowed to care about Miss Marceau and your refugees Lieutenant Itami. While you were out there in the Capital, guess who-" she stopped herself as she spoke Japanese, switching over to English, knowing about how Chuka had less of a grasp on it. "What I mean to say is that I know how Miss Marceau is at her worst and I know Yao's story too."

"So you'll assist us?"

The Marines in Lumaban's fireteam had gone chest to chest with some of the Rangers, even Wlbur indulging in some of the cross-branch rivalries. "You'll need our help if you want to finish the job, Ranger...What else is new?" one of them had said to Nutt's face. All of the Marines had keffiyehs. Not the sort bought from the PXs or online at a bargain price from China, but ones that had been woven in the land they originated from. They were the real deal, and they had seen war. Hidden in the strands of fabric had been the very essence of veterans of America's wars in the Middle East, worn by those that survived.

"Can it Poindexter… but yeah," she turned back to Bannon. "Wherever 1-3 goes, we go to. It's our orders."

"And I tell 1-3 where to go, sooooooo-" Wilbur had been as chipper as ever, even moreso once he had seen his mission realized, his dare to rescue the village of, in all but name, a woman he cared for. There she had been, hand in hand with him, silent.

"And you? You got nothing to say?" Itami rose a finger toward Yao, she was armored up in the clothes she came here with, ready to make the trip back.

There a smirk hidden behind her silver bangs, her eyes closing, almost in peace. "I've finally found the help I needed. What else is there to say but thank you?" she opened her eyes and looked into Itami sincerely, emotionally. " _ **Thank you.**_ "

The words grinded past Itami's ears. "I'm sorry it took this long."

"Y'all know what you're getting into?" Bannon's voice drew the attention of all towards her, her own form of the American West coming into her voice. "Us Rangers have the excuse of our special operating procedures, but you Marines? Especially you Itami, you're going AWOL."

"Wouldn't be the first time, madam." Wilbur had retorted. "I left my country once for a good reason. I can do it again."

"Our orders are to follow 1-3 around wherever they go, I don't think we'll have problems, personally." she had shrugged her shoulders again. "Besides. Marines promised me I would kill dragons when I was drafted."

Ramirez had finally chimed in with the woman he had talked about to Pina. "Normally draftees don't stay in this long, Sergeant Lumaban."

She hadn't remembered Ramirez, but Ramirez had remembered her.

"There are some things you can't let go of, Ranger." she had held her rifle proudly against her kit. "Besides, I've worked with Rangers before: Iran."

" _I know."_ The weight of Ramirez's words were lost on all but him, and the world moved onward as he saw the disaster of Iran come full circle before him in a grizzled veteran not unlike himself.

Itami coughed hard into his hand, garnering the attention of all. "Sergeant Lumaban, would you please lead us to your armory then. We'll be glad to have you along."

"Now this is a Special Task Force I can get behind." a Marine sneered. "Think you Rangers can keep up?" the man winked at the special operators in question, he set them up.

Actions spoke louder than words, therefore the Rangers had shuffled past them all and led the way.

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Italica - Camp Kilgore - Armory**_

* * *

Once, all the weapons of the Rangers had been kept in the Marine armories. Once of course. Ever since Italica the Rangers had claimed what was theirs and kept it with them in their quarters in the Fromar Keep. They could do their own maintenance. Even then however, on this particular mission, they would need more than what they used just to simply kill humans and humanoid beings in this Special Region.

Now had required a touch of overreaction and dramaticism that special forces excelled at.

"Let us through Dave." Lumaban had taken her stride and put herself up front at the grate between armory sergeant and them. If it had been just Lumaban and her fireteam, there wouldn't have been a problem, but it was Lumaban, her fireteam, an entire Ranger team, Lieutenant Itami, Yao and Chuka, plus everyone's favorite British tank commander.

Seventeen people at current.

The sergeant had looked up through the gate in some perplexion, unsure of what to do. "Uhh, hey Perla… you've got orders?"

The door to the armory was locked, courtesy of this sergeant's job, and he had been doing a good job, even with about twenty people wanting to get in and take a piece of his inventory out.

"Yes and no. 1-3's about to head south. We need to be outfitted for more than just security detail."

The armorer had licked his lips as he stood up, looking around the Filipino sergeant, giving a meek wave at the Rangers. "Did those muscle suits ever get back to you?"

Bannon had been anxious, but not unreasonable. "Uh, yeah. Thanks, I guess."

The armorer nodded. "Yeah, really tricky getting the replacement materials for those things. Anyway, you with her?" he pointed at Lumaban.

"Going in the same direction, yes."

"And you…?" the point came to Itami and the two elves.

"Yeah."

The armorer crossed his arms as he looked back at the weapon racks and cages and then to the fact that the Rangers and Marines had arms already on them. "My gut feeling tells me that I can't issue weapons for this, Sergeant Lumaban."

"Oh come on Dave, you know we ain't selling these weapons to Iraqis." Wilbur had spoken up, he basically vibrating to be let through those doors.

"What the fuck are you here for, English? You have a damn tank!"

"Well, shite, moral support."

The armory sergeant was the only one on duty in the armory at that moment, but because of that he alone had to make that judgment whether or not to let these people though. He wouldn't of course. "All those weapons are on my ass, people, I can't give them up without notification from GHQ. Especially for something as colorful as…" the man had cut the bullshit. "You folks really gonna go out and hunt that dragon, eh?"

" _ **Dragon?!"**_ the trigger word that made her fists close and her eyes unkind. Itami had patted her head again as he had pressed his mouth into her forehead, calming her, playing with her ears. She had broken all at once and been put back together again, and each time it had happened there were more cracks than there were than before.

"Do you want that to keep happening?" Lumaban had pointed at the two, pointed at the tears that the Marines had seen before. It was a poor argument, but even worn heart strings still sing.

"What I feel doesn't matter, Lumaban, this shit ain't on the level."

"There's no such thing as a level, sergeant." Parting the sea of would be crusaders had been a man who had been a scary visage of undercover and wetwork. There was a scowl, a roughness, to his face that Hitman never saw when he was posing as an Air Force MP.

Apparently he had faked his balding even, his face a well ridged one, the sides of his mouth always curved downward.

He had no rank, at least, officially. He was beyond that at this point, working on under the moniker of Agent. Rank meant nothing to him.

That much was evident by how he had talked to Pierce and Hazama in the Special Region.

"Let them through sergeant." An older voice from an older man. A man in black and a mask covering his neck, outfitted for combat, a Type-64 rifle held by him despite the fact he was an American.

An angry buzz of facial hair, steel in his eyes and experience on his skin.

"Mitch?"

The armorer did not dare argue against a CIA operative.

The rumors of the men in black across the world had perhaps been one of the reasons why the world wanted, in some capacity, America dead. The story of dirty operators and dirty wars waged underneath the public eye by the only people that could, but always denied.

The spooks of the Central Intelligence Agency had come and infected this world, and here had been one hiding in plain sight before Bannon and Itami.

"Let me tell you man, you clean up nice." Harris had looked at the man, once perceived by Hitman as simply a rather pudgy MP back at Yokota, but now a man who had been their equal; even above.

"Man has to have standards." he said simply, shrugging in his kit, wiping an Oakley covered hand through wavy hair. The buzzing of the armory door opening had spurred some of Hitman to go, but Bannon and Itami stood there.

"What were you man? SEAL? MARSOC? Ranger like us?" he ignored the prodding by Nutt.

The JSDF lieutenant had been all too aware the man had been CIA and what that had meant. He'd been here for a few weeks already, and the way he had held his stance had meant he'd been busy. Busy enough for there to be sand in his laces. He hadn't interviewed him as intensely as he did Emerson and Shino, but still, there was some grinded poison sent his way for being who he was.

Itami didn't question why it had been _**sand**_ in his laces.

"Why are you doing this Mitch?" Bannon's skepticism had writ itself over her one eye.

"Consider it a favor."

"The only favors I heard you CIA spooks ever giving always came with a catch. A deadly catch." she responded.

Mitch had shrug against as he cleared his own rifle, rendering it safe and passing it between the grate for the armory staff to take and store.

"Safe, clear."

"Safe. clear."

The exchange as the rifle was given order was one of routine. "A Ranger's no good to me dead, Bannon, trust me, I've known. But let me just tell you I'd rather you and Mister Itami go out into the field on this "survey mission" fully loaded. I know intel points to a certain threat that way and it'd be a shame for the first casualties to be during such a… unremarkable mission."

"Any other intel?" Itami prodded.

"Yao and Chuka, they ain't worth it." he was rather set with that observation.

"I don't think that's our call to make, sir." Bannon had burned, her one eye glaring.

Mitch had checked his watch, uninterested in the plight of the two elves he was in front of, even as he bad mouthed them. "They're just refugees with a sob story, Miss Bannon. They may be your excuse, but they're just another face in this crowd. Would've you done the same if they had been Kurds fleeing from ISIS? Rhodesians fleeing from the blacks as your parents did?"

" _Rhodesian?_ " Wilbur had heard those words fall off Mitch's tongue as Bannon glared at the CIA agent. "You're a fucking _**Rhodie**_?"

Only Wilbur had fully acknowledged what that was as it was brushed off.

"Miss Bannon, do what you will do, but remember, everything has a consequence." he turned away, but not before twitching his eye at Itami. "Is the soul of a nation, worth the soul of a single person?"

A question which he knew the answer to himself. His first assignment, his one of only two assignments before being relocated to the Pacific had cost him his own soul, his own mental sanity.

He remembered seeing Bin Laden's body as he had been on the Carl Vinson, waiting for the operators to return from Abbottabad decades ago. He remembered holding the 416 rifle that had shot him, the Pakistani dirt rubbed into its grips, the way that Osama's face was frozen in some peacefully abstract tone, old and crooked under his touch, blood stained garbs of traditional evening wear. How his skin was scratched by his dirty nails as the Navy SEALs had ripped him off of the corpse before he could personally disfigure it, he screaming obscenities on how he did not suffer.

They held him back as they wrapped him in a white shroud, gave him his final Arabic prayers, placed his tall form on a white table at the edge of the deck in a black bag weighted with heavy chain. He was screaming, screaming into the night, at God, at the Director Panetta, at the Navy SEALs themselves. Screaming because all that rage, all that purpose, his mission to find Bin Laden, had all ended like this. Not in the violence he had so desperately wanted.

The body had been tipped over the side with its cargo, but it didn't go alone: the table it had been on was taken with it, and when the SEALs had thought that would've been enough from Mitch, he had gone after the body as well in his madness, into the darkness of the northern Arabic sea.

His death had changed nothing.

The Middle East had still been destroyed, America had still collapsed under the pressure of a world that wanted it gone, the entire world thrown into economic and societal chaos, and the Taliban and Al Qaeda had been accommodated into Afghanistan's state of affairs as if they were normal.

Bin Laden's soul had cost America its own, and Mitch had wanted so badly to die, to chase Bin Laden into hell because of it that night.

Because in the end, he had won.

" _ **Yes.**_ " Itami had answered.

" _Agent Beckett, you will be assigned to the Afghanistan regional task force in this effort to locate Usama bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri as well as their affiliates. I don't care what you do with the country, the locals, the government. Turn them against each other, turn them upside down, get rid of them, replace them, pay them, whatever. Whatever it takes, we will back you and the task force. This is a mission of utmost importance to the Agency, do you promise to do what it is necessary to complete your mission?"_

" _ **Yes.**_ _" Agent Mitchell Beckett had answered to Director Tenet during a September, twenty eight years ago._

Mitch had chuckled once and remembered the same strong punch in his answer that Itami now wielded, walking away silently after leaving them with one message. "Fine, fine, but you've chosen your path."

* * *

Given free reign over the Marine armory had been quite an experience to Itami, especially as the Hitmen themselves were lost upon the endless assortment of weapons that had been racked up there. For every situation: the likely, the unlikely, and the absurd. Standard issue M16A2 and A3 rifles come out of the National Guard depots for use in the Special Region, M32 grenade launchers, M95 and M82 .50 BMG sniper rifles alongside SR-25s and M21 EBRs.

He almost didn't know what to do.

Almost.

"Jesus, I haven't even held one of these things yet." Poindexter had held an MCRA1 to his cheek as he took it off its shelf, racking back the bolt in the empty, rather bland looking weapon that the Army had started to field just recently. Bannon had taken it from him with little comment.

Itami had only given an understanding nod as she had put it back on the rack. "She doesn't like it when someone plays with her toys."

Poindexter could only give a thumbs up as Lumaban grabbed a few M27IARs with Beta C-Mags, the dual drums being fastened into the rifles as each of her fireteam took one.

Wilbur had bundled four ARs over his back for him and the crew. Just in case.

The Hitmen had gone through the armory like it had been old stomping grounds, but in reality they knew what they needed as all the AA-12s were taken from their racks with all the spare magazines, Nutt and Harris immediately taking a seat near some of the loading benches and thumbing in explosive shells into the magazines as they were delivered to them.

The MCRs were left behind in favor of M4s by the Rangers mostly, a pair of M60s and M240s taken over the backs of a few Rangers as Bannon unlocked the cage for the launchers.

She greedily looked over the Carl Gustav with her one eye as she had thrown that over her back, the M72 LAWs being taken in armfuls by the Rangers and the Marines as Itami piled plastic explosives into his bag, an M82A1 sniper rifle over his own shoulders. It had been the heaviest weapon he had ever operated, but god damn he was planning to use it.

Interestingly enough the weapons taken from the criminals had been taken as well by Hitman, perhaps out of Habit, or simply claiming them and making sure no Marine had picked them up in their absence, by the Lee-Enfield Bannon had was over the shoulder not occupied by the Carl Gustav as she loaded it, Loke and Harris loading their AKs respectively as if they were Spetsnaz and not Rangers.

Bannon had looked to Doc as he loaded his own SCAR, noticing his chest holster had been empty. "Where's the Luger Doc?"

Doc had gone to his chest with his palm, feeling over where it should be before his eyes had blanked out. He did not want to remember the Capital because of what he had done, what he had seen.

 _90% sure it was on me back at the Capital…._

"I think I left it back at the Devil's House in Akusho. Should be alright."

"Got it." Bannon had racked her own M45 back as she holstered it, standing up as she felt the weight of an extra heavy combat kit fight gravity.

The armorer had a radio playing, and what had been playing had been oddly fitting for what had been happening: rounds being loaded and the meticulous sound of guns being reloaded and kits being tightened.

 _Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers_

 _One hundred million angels singing_

 _Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum_

 _Voices calling, voices crying_

 _Some are born and some are dying_

 _It's Alpha and Omega's_ _ **kingdom come**_

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Johnny Cash – When the Man Comes Around**_

* * *

Loke had exchanged her MP5 for an MP7, loading in a new mag, pulling back the bolt and loading in another mag to top it off, an AA-12 over her shoulder as she had her kit tightened by Nutt, the man carrying an M32 grenade launcher over his chest, two LAWs over his back and ruck.

Harris had simply loaded his M60 with a slap, another Carl Gustav over his back with the ammunition lining his bag, on his helmet had been strapped a Zippo. Engraved in its metal sheen had been this as he began to file out of the room with more bags of ammunition:

 _Fighter by Day_

 _Fucker by Night_

Corporal Ortiz had dragged a breaching hammer out, helping Itami lug the C4 outside as the Marine armorer simply stayed quiet, Lumaban shuffling out with her loaded out squad, all of them wielding M249s converted to a chainsaw configuration by the bored armory staff. "You're lugging around three platoon's worth of firepower Sergeant Lumaban." he had warned.

"We'll need it if we face off against Red."

"Red?"

 _The wise man will bow down before the throne_

 _And at His feet they'll cast their golden crowns_

 _ **When the Man comes around**_

"It's what RCT3 and Hitman call that dragon that the dark elf was begging us to kill."

"A platoon versus one red flying son of a bitch eh? Sounds like you'll need it."

"To Sergeant Bannon this is her finishing the job."

The armory sergeant looked over to the woman, aiming at the floor as she adjusted the stock of her M4. "Yeah, I know."

The legend of the Coda Village evacuation and of a Recon Team taking on a dragon. It was a legend of word only. That is unless the video footage had been released by the three Hitmen that were there.

Their video project of theirs was growing and growing, a secret between them: a record of what they had all done so far.

The proof that they had done what they had done and it would remain with them forever.

"Don't get yourself killed, sergeant. There are better places to die. Moreso in our world."

Lumaban had tightened her lips as she held her own M27IAR, remembering the first day she had picked up a rifle, the first day she had shot a gun, the first day she had killed someone.

She was a draftee forced into the life she lived, a godless world with godless people and she alone stood as the insanity of war took her hostage, slit her throat, tore out the breath of her lungs and left her speechless to describe what she had become.

"When it's my time, it'll be my time."

"God speed then." the armory Marine had simply said, joining in, dragging the ammo and supplies out as Bannon got her goggles over her eye and eyepatch, Itami wearing the armor and kit of a Marine to the surprise of the Americans, his sniper rifle hung by a sling on his neck. He had finally looked like a bad ass motherfucker.

Ramirez had taken his own AA-12 over his shoulder, he alone taking one of the MCRs, he also taking Lumaban by the shoulders aside as she fitted out with her squad.

"Look here GI-Reen, we appreciate you tagging along, and we know it's your current duty to follow around 1-3, but word to the wise." Ramirez had shades on, behind it: dead eyes of a man who had seen this woman before. "Stay behind us, keep your weapons pointing wherever we point, and don't shoot any of our guys."

Lumaban twinged her face. She heard this talk before. "This ain't fucking Iraq, Ranger. As far as I'm concerned we're as effective a fighting force as you all here."

"Vehicle pool, now." Itami barked, dashing forward as the Marines and the Rangers followed instinctively. Another fight for another time.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Italica – Camp Kilgore – Vehicle Garage/Pool**_

* * *

The head of the Marine garage in Italica and Camp Kilgore had been busy as hell, the man rushing toward the group of Rangers, Marines, and Lieutenant Itami with an urgency over his oil soaked face. "CIA spook told me the deal Ranger, do as you may, and give that dragon son of a bitch hell. _**Oorah**_?"

" _ **Hooah**_!" The Rangers had responded with the Army version of the cry, heavily armed and dangerous.

Itami had taken one of the Humvees himself as he threw his explosives in the boot, mentally fighting with himself to get in on the left side of the car with the American form of driving, several of the surplus supplies going in as well as the Marines found a Humvee with an M134 mounted on it.

Though it was immediately susceptible to the men and women that came there to the vehicle depot on a mission, the Special Task Force had actually lost a tank. Wilbur had been helping Itami load up the Humvee when he had noticed the metal carcass of Warlord 1-2 and its tank commander seemingly paying respects to the metal beasts.

The two had locked eyes as the 1-2's commander had walked over, more than aware that Wilbur had been going to do what no one had wanted him to do.

"The hell happened?" Wilbur asked quickly, motioning toward the bent turret.

Elton had been a little annoyed, disgust on his face and aggravation on his fingertips as he held his hips, clamping his report on the damage to his side. "Rolling Stone," he started as he referred to the name of his tank. "She was hoisted up on a rig when the earthquake hit. Fell over and started a fire, inside is entirely lost."

Wilbur had been out of touch with some of the daily briefings, this detail entirely new to him. "My condolences."

"Ah, it's okay, could've been worse. Wilkes got trampled on when the quake hit after all. Glad he's back, him and his fucking wise ass."

"Maybe it would've done him a little good to take a beam to the head, eh?"

"Yo, don't joke about that shit English."

"Sorry."

"We're getting a straight M1A5 I hear. Some borrowed hog from the Marine Armored corp… shame it's already got a name though."

"And what name would be that?"

 _ **"Here We Go Again."**_

Wilbur flared his nose. "Rather fanciful."

Elton had been liable to agree. "Well I didn't name it… I like it though. Blackburn told me that the frame was an A1 original and was able to be upgraded all the way up. Things almost as old as you are." he looked over to the Rangers and the other Marines, still dropping off their loads into the boots and backs of what vehicles they were grabbing. Humvees had been the obvious choices, but a few of the Rangers had been a little more adventurous.

"Oh fuck yeah." Nutt had muttered beneath his breath as he dragged Hitman over to the corner of the garage they just realized had been meant for them.

ATVs, motorbikes, outfitted for military work.

American Marine Raiders in Afghanistan had employed such off-road vehicles during their hunt for insurgents. Polish and British special forces having famously employed a convoy of bikes and ATVs during their evacuation of their embassies from Dubai and Saudi Arabia: engaging the roaming bands of scavengers and raiders in what had essentially been a Peninsula gone into a visage of Mad Max.

Ramirez had been used to motorcycles. His duty vehicle during his police service had been this type of vehicle. Perhaps that was why he had aggressively kicked the gear shift and spun the tires on garage ground.

"Hey! Ranger! Cut that shit!"

"Sorry!"

Elton shook his head, tired. "This is some next level drama shit you're getting your head into, English."

"I wouldn't want it any other way Honcho, especially if it's for her."

The way he had said Her, referring to the dark elf standing to the side, just waiting to be told what to do, it didn't sit well in the tanker's stomach. Then again he knew what, was up with his own gunner and what he was caught in with a maid from the Fromar's.

"English." he had cocked his hands on his hips, looking down at the man's boots. Between his own and the British man's there wasn't any competition on who had walked the ground in the name of war more. "Did I ever tell you I deployed to Afghan before we tried to pull out?"

2015\. Wilbur nodded no.

"Did I ever tell you I never left?"

"What?"

"My guys, Kincaid, Little John, fuck, even Rampage that cocky bastard, we were all there on that last deployment as Marines. We never left, English." he pointed at Yao, holding it, not caring if she saw. " _We never left because of them._ I saw shit happen, injustices, by god I can still remember, and that was before Daesh."

"What do you mean, Parker?"

"There's a piece of my soul back there, in 2015, in Afghanistan. The part of me that wanted to do something for the kid-" He grew distant, shaking his head, denying himself. He shouldn't have been talking. "A better piece of myself I left with the people I was there for. The part of me that I knew that I should've acted on."

Wilbur had straightened the man's shoulders, he was shaking, just so subtly, he was unsteady. "It's just a dragon."

And yet man was the greatest perpetrator of horror in the world, both in the Special Region and in all worlds mankind had existed. The Marine remembered it all. His face, by God, he recounted. Every single pore, lash, scar, connected to his memory only because he was holding the shoulders of a child that he would turn into a suicide bomber not a week later.

He should've did something, said something. His dragon was right in front of him in that market one day and he had a gun. He should've blown that man's head off. He should've blown his own for not doing anything.

Elton kept shaking his head. The name of the tank was fitting now, because here they were again, and now, as he looked up at the white British man with the dare of heroism in his eye, he had seen his reflection.

He snapped out of it. "Good luck, English." he had softly said, walking away and out.

Most Marines who had seen what Elton had seen, and had served what he had served, would've given the same speech, the same heart to heart. Though in the end it didn't matter to Wilbur. That warning could've been told to him a million times and he would still do what he was doing.

The Rangers had commandeered a Humvee, four people in it, the remaining four taking two ATVs and two motor bikes. Added on top of the Marine Humvee and Itami's, Wilbur hopping into the lieutenant's car, seven vehicles were about to be checked out of the box with enough fuel and ammo to wage a war of their own.

That was the plan after all.

Bannon and Ramirez had been the ones on the bike, promptly spinning them up as they brought them to the opened garage door, the Marine mechanics and crew hustling to get the gates open to the garage and the Italica streets.

Some had cheered, some had said nothing at all, but they were comrades all the same as they ignored what bureaucratic crap would've come of this impromptu mission. Over the roar of engines in the enclosed space Bannon had lifted her fingers up above all and signaled the radio frequency.

"This is Hitman 1-1 Actual, Wilbur, where's 1-3 right now? Over."

"Eastern defensive position. Lead the way."

"Copy all." Her right hand had rose in the air again, circling with her index finger before throwing it forward. The convoy had started as the day had died above, and the rumble of another mission of the Special Task Force made its way through Italica to the cheering of locals, who, upon looking at Yao and Chuka, could only assume what was to be done.

Like the knights of fairy tales the entourage of loving towns folk could not be understated.

All that ruckus wasn't unnoticed by a few particular individuals however.

The sound of her boots stomping on Italica's rooftops had only been heard as Bannon stopped the convoy just shy of exiting the streets of Italica out to the open flanks of the city where the Corridor hadn't been built up yet.

Her halberd had flown with her it landing first against the stone ground to balance her out in the rather graceful affair.

Behind the convoy had been the sound of a bike being furiously pedaled and cast aside.

Her face had been furious, that much Itami could see as the lead Humvee behind Bannon and Ramirez. The Marines in trail position had habitually thumbed the safeties on their rifles down around Rory, ignoring the blue haired refugee pass them by.

"Thought you could go out on this mission without us, huh?"

Itami had gotten out of his Humvee, arms up, almost apologetically. "You have a job Rory."

Bannon's shoulders slumped at how hypocritical that was coming from the man.

"Oh Itami, I have a duty to a higher being too, but that hasn't gotten in the way of anything, has it?" she sterned in her all so confusing voice. The voice of a child with the curve of an adult's. "And you Bannon?"

"We have enough personnel Rory!"

She had spun her halberd in a fan, the two motorcyclists up front dismounting with their weapons. "That's not the point!" she had whined. "We're all close enough for me to be involved, right?! I don't have that many years left to experience an adventure!"

If the Special Task Force truly had a beef with Rory than at the very least they could wait forty or so years for her ascension.

Her uniform, or rather, ebony and red dress, had been flowing in the wind ever so daintily as she had stopped this convoy of manpower and missionmakers. It was a valid question, a question she was entitled to.

She was one of the refugees, she had faced the Flame Dragon, she had as much a bone to pick with it as Bannon and Itami.

Though there was something more in her initiative now. Something for her sake. The job of being an MP Commander was great, it gave her power, tame power, which she felt fulfilling. It gave her something to do, and boredom was often a problem in her centuries alive, however she had been separated from people she was invested in.

After those forty years were up she had to make a choice of who would be her instrument, just as she was Emroy's now. What Emerson suspected was true, and maybe the others would be more willing…

Bannon and Itami had walked up to her, Lelei sliding up to Ramirez.

"Miss Lalena." he had greeted the sorceress. "I don't suppose you want in too?"

As the veteran and the magician talked the apostle had made her dues to the two who had come to her.

"Take me. _**Please**_."

Itami and Bannon had shared a look. Itami's look had been entirely favorable with her tagging along given her combat pedigree. Bannon hadn't been so as she adjusted her eye patch, trying to justify it at all. She threw her hands up in the air finally after a few seconds. She couldn't fight it. "Local oversight."

"Sounds good to me." she had cheered with a jump, taking her Halberd in hand.

"Get in one of the Humvees-" Bannon had thumbed back, but not before she and Itami had been dropped to the floor by a leg sweep of the halberd.

No sooner than they had fallen did the guns of the convoy raise up. Lelei's staff however had hit the concrete hard before looking back with a rather defiant look. She didn't want anyone to do anything, for she knew what Rory was about to perform.

If Emerson had been there he would've right off the bat known what was happening. To draw blood in the name of Emroy was considered a holy staple of his worship. To have his current apostle take in your blood. It was nothing short of getting the VIP ticket to the debauchery of the higher deities and their servants.

The apostle had some demented sense of allure and seduction to her. It came with the job, even as she had mounted both Itami and Bannon, the two shoulder to shoulder and the winds knocked out of them.

"If you simply die, ufffuffufu-" she was laughing to herself. "Your souls are mine here."

"What in the-?!" Bannon had almost rocked herself off the ground, however Rory's leg had pinned her down.

" _How could I forget you were the actual demon!"_

Her hands had mirrored their movements across both of their bodies, starting from the uncomfortable south of the border, tracing its way across their stomachs with her index finger before cupping both of their breasts above their heart and feeling it beat. She had leaned down and heard it, her face basically up against their chests as she snaked up their bodies to their necks, her lips and teeth grazing the skin.

A lick, a slight suck, was all that Bannon had gotten before Rory had suddenly snapped her head to Itami's neck and bit down.

" _ **Yeeargh!"**_

Rory had wiped Itami's blood along her teeth and gums as the man had snapped back, unaware he had been bitten just by the absurdity of it. As he had slid away, Bannon unable to as Rory mounted her again, she had lowered her head and her still red teeth, only to have her neck once again feel the wetness of her mouth and the blood of Itami.

No bite came though.

"Oh don't worry Bannon, your time will come~."

She was left speechless as she had finally gotten herself up the ground, dragging Itami up as she wiped his blood off of her neck.

"The contract has been established." the quiet voice of one of Italica's head of government, Bannon twisting around, her voice at a loss after what she had just been a part of.

"You too?" she had been finally able to let out as Itami stamped his hand to his neck. Lelei nodded. There was no fighting at this point as she shook her head to get the storm in her mind out, reprioritizing. "Medic!"

"Right behind you." Literally. "What's up Commander Mercury?"

"Hello Doc." Doc's casualness with death herself had been scary, though then again as a would be doctor death was constant company. It didn't stop him from applying a gauze, medical gel, and a wrap around Itami's wound.

"Oi! What's the fucking hold up!" Wilbur banging on the Humvee hadn't exactly been appreciated but he had a point.

"We'll… we'll talk about this later." Bannon's daze hadn't stopped her from mounting her motorcycle again, trying to ignore the fact the only refugee she truly cared for on a personal level was about to be dragged into this too. "You alright Itami?"

"I have no idea." he had crawled back into the Humvee's driver seat.

"There's a saying, Youji," Rory had hung off the side of his Humvee to ride it. "A little pain is good for the soul."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – Italica - Facing East**_

* * *

"English is back home, boys." Lance Corporal John "Schmack" Smith had said as he had gotten his helmet on, the rest of Kingdom Come's crew nodding at the rushing man with his Marines and Rangers in tow as they rested on top of their tank, seeing a larger convoy than they expected come toward them. "We good boss?!" he yelled.

He didn't get an audible answer as the Humvees had basically drifted around Kingdom Come as those who needed to disembark disembarked, the ATVs and the motorcycles taking position in front of Kingdom Come to lead.

Kingdom Come had been dug into a position as sort of a hulled in gun for that portion of Italica's remaining defensive line, but nowadays it was just a place to park the Abrams.

1-3 still had its mineshield up at its front: the triangular, almost ram like metal device had been partly involved in making 1-3 the meanest of the Abrams in the Special Region.

The other half had been the men that crewed it as M4s were suddenly tossed to them by their approaching tank commander.

Dixie, the American southern boy, had shook his head as he racked his rifle. "I ain't sign up for this shit."

The commander had gave a thumbs up as the gunner had thrown the man's helmet at him, he putting it on snug as he had held onto Yao's hand,

"Let's make it snappy people!" he ordered, Chuka going in the back with her "father".

"Are you one hundred percent you're all alright with this?!" Wilbur clambered ontop of his tank as the driver slid into his hatch. The man had been the quiet one, but of course there wasn't much to be heard when an Abrams was up and running in full steed, like a force of nature. He had saved his breath as he had punched his fist down over the starter of the turbine engine: a high pitch whine coming from the boot as the tank roared like a combat aircraft.

"We're not ones for insubordination!" Black had responded for her team lead, the man riding gunner position for the Ranger Humvee.

"Hit the handles Dixie! We need it rolling, fast!" The radio comms blared with Wilbur's voice as he had felt the tank vibrate, putting his feet into the commander's hold like a swimmer, ready to go into the abyss. Squeezing Yao's hand, having coaxed her to go to Itami's Humvee, she following as the tank's rising pitch ruled the coming night before peaking and subsiding at, to the tankers, a warm, familiar purr.

Dixie, the driver, had played with the throttle control, helping the turbines along to get the tank fully hot. He had known how this tank played, and to Lelei, as she had also clambered on despite her small form and fell into Yao's lap, the man had been controlling this beast.

It wasn't that different, in essence, than revving a hot rod.

Albeit one with a 120 mike mike gun, brimming with machine guns, one of them, the M2 Browning, being loaded by Wilbur as he had peeked inside to make sure his men were there. Gunner to his feet, loader on the opposite side, the two going through their own pre-flight checks as Itami's Humvee and the two Ranger ATV and motorbike formations formed around the Abrams.

Wilbur fed the chain into the MG, pulling back hard on the gun as he had gotten the M4 out of the space next to the seat and seated the mag in.

"Chains?! We good?!" he had yelled down to his gunner, the man passing Wilbur an M45 to be loaded, he complying rather dramatically as he racked back the slide, putting it into his holster.

"Optics clear, coax seems functional, Schmack?!" the gunner yelled out to the loader.

The metallic clang of the breach lever being slammed down and the loading mechanism being opened had been reversed real quick as the loader had glanced into the barrel. "Main gun good!"

"How we looking on ammo?!" The tank's turret had started shifting left and right, tested out, the barrel shifting up and down.

"Vertical and horizontal looking good! Ring sounds fine!" the gunner chimed in as the infantry loaded into their own victors, the turrets prepped all the same in a rush.

The ammo compartment had been opened and shut fast. "HEAT and HE, full load!" the loader answered.

The inside of an M1 Abrams had been the safest place in any world, as was the promise of its designers: the epitome of American ground power all made into tons of metal delivering high explosive hurt in an unbreakable package. It was more than just a machine, a weapon, to Wilbur and his tank crew.

It was a right: the given ability to do something and change the world.

As was the power that tank had given them.

And they would use that power, come hell or high water.

If a monster was what they were going to hunt down. This was the monster they were going to ride to confront it.

Schmack popped out of his hatch to his own turret, locking back his 240Bravo and looking across to Wilbur, the man dead set on standing, riding this beast all the way out like some proud son of a bitch with a mission on his mind. He liked Wilbur, honestly, seeing as he had never had a tank commander like him.

When he was told he was going to be shipped out to this damn region as part of only one of four tanks, he had prayed to the stars that the people he would've been crewed with were good. And god willing they had been. He was always a social person at that, necessitated after having gone so many roommates in his bumming about in his youth. This entire tank crew had been as much as a family he could've hoped for, after all they had done, and killed. Schmack had definitely remembered how many rounds he had hauled from ammo compartment to breach during Italica, Arnus, and, to his pleasure, to his mercy, he wasn't the only one who did.

The weight of his sin, was shared across that tank crew.

The tank crew knew who each other were, what kind of people they were, what kind of soldiers, Marines. And with that, they knew why they had no qualms with each other, taking on this unsure mission.

They were all sons of bitches with a mission now, he had supposed as he left the hatch open and shrunk back down.

"This is Hitman 1-1 Actual. Warlord 1-3 are we oscar mike? Over." The raspy voice of the Ranger squad lead had hit all of their headsets as Wilbur handed off ear protection to the two riders up top. God knows he had lost a touch of his hearing first few months in an MBT, and that had been saying something coming from the oil facilities and drills.

Wilbur had gotten his microphone adjusted as he tightened the straps on his helmet. It was literally like old hat. "This is Warlord 1-3. We are REDCON 1. RCT3 Lead. Over to you." he said as he had bumped his fist on the turret's metal, as if he was petting it, the tank's turbine purring along, appeased by its driver's handling in the minute it took to get it ready.

"This is RCT3 Actual. Follow lead victor and clear the Corridor. After that we are bearing one-two-zero and will make it up as we go along. Over."

"Hitman 1-1 copies all."

Wilbur had leaned his head back before shifting over to his crew, and he smiled. They had smiled in return in their own way, and if it wasn't for the hype, the excitement, of being deployed, even on their own volition against the wishes of the brass, his pale face would've been red. This was fulfillment, this was what people joined the service for: this feeling of actually helping people through the threat of action.

"Warlord 1-3 copies. We're killing ourselves a dragon!"

"Oorah!" the Marines had roared, Sergeant Lumaban simply nodding at Wilbur from her Humvee.

Wilbur had sometimes forgotten he himself was a Marine, but he had given off hat same cheer,as Itami rolled out of their defensive position to the bewilderment of some of the Marines and the JSDF, and onward they went like a properly cavalry, into a kingdom come.


	32. 2-12: Geronimo

_**A/N**_ : This one's for you, pepjin30.

Alright, 3rdXenocide and Guest, let's get cracking at those responses:

 _ **3rdXenocide**_ : A lot of my information regarding Gate's later stages point toward a major disagreement between Lelei and Rondel later on, and according to what I do have that is based off her knowledge of the Earth not being flat. Perhaps that particular detail is just one of a myriad of facts Rondel contests Lelei (and by corollary the Special Task Force) on, but you bring up a good point regarding the origins as I imply it:

These Imperials are Roman by ancestry, and that means all of the technological marvels of Rome as it was. Now I'm learning more and more about Rome as an Empire every so often, and true, I might not be the best to actually pit a Roman Empire vs. a Modern Military just because I have no practical knowledge of Roman military and technological sophistication in full swing, but there's something that is brought up regarding technological progress:

Now it might seem like a cheap way to present itself, but the Gods, through the introduction of Magic and that dimension of thought, has nullified, or at least delayed technological progress of the Empire to a point where they are identifiable as Roman. Now why the Empire would do this is because A.) Magic is itself a hard discipline to master for any worldly being and B.) Technological progress eventually makes Gods an archaic form of order. I think the first episode of Spice and Wolf has this in a way: that a village has become so successful in farming that they quit praying to the God of the Harvest for their sustenance. If the Gods want to preserve their order, I imagine that keeping their people alive via not having technology progress to even industrial levels would be in their favor.

That's how I see it.

The ideas of the Special Task Force will take hold and challenge the Gods however.

As for Konradi? Well, I've always interpreted the Special Region to take place in a different universe or dimension and, as the science goes, there are bound to be versions of ourselves across those infinite universes. Konradi is not only a call to The Line, it's more than that seeing as I have taken that story into my world for the sake of story telling, Konradi _**is** _ John Konrad. The reason I'm putting it so bluntly is, asides from having Walker in the Special Region and confronting Konradi, it wouldn't be known to the reader unless you're really observant. There are a few details which a few of the observant have picked up, especially regarding Lelei.

Even though I have used The Line as a part of MD's history, I try my best to distance myself from it to avoid it being a direct crossover. I came very close to doing the same with Spice and Wolf actually.

 _ **Guest**_ : I think the very fact that the Special Task Force is there is a the World calling out the Empire, also, for thematic and story telling reasons, I don't have anyone explicitly saying "Imperialism is fucking bad, just look at what the Empire is doing". Then again I may be misinterpreting what you're saying. I'll try to portray the Empire better come the next Act in any case. In the end however, this is a story about the Special Task Force side of things and it will be usually focused there.

 ** _In General_** : this is actually a chapter cut in half, so the next chapter should be posted in a few days. Going back into that 15-30k chapters again instead of the 100 page mammoth the last one was. Also, just so I get the point across, _**THE REST OF SECTION 2 IS A HOMAGE TO HEART OF DARKNESS**_.

* * *

 ** _Section 2-12_**

 ** _Posted on 7/17/2016_**

* * *

It was very quiet outside Arnus, out in the wild past the operating area of the Special Task Force: the great open plains giving only wind a voice, even above the rumble of the motorbikes, Kingdom Come, and the Humvees.

They were wanderers on a medieval Earth that wore an aspect of an unknown world, crawling toward one vaguely defined goal pointed out by a woman who had called that unknown her home, her anguished journey from there being retraced by the metal monsters of modern men and women.

That had been the problem with escaping under the guise of night: the ominous atmosphere it lent to an unsung war being commenced had perhaps put the emotions of those who had set out a bit tense. Tenser than they had liked being as Marine headquarters had been screaming at them through the radio and Yanagida had been answering for them.

Wilbur had tuned out as he tightened his jaw, glancing back between the disappearing lights in the distance and the refugees riding with Itami up front. Further away from a civilized world and toward what he knew he wanted to fight for.

"Court martial might be up our alley one of these days. You boys fine with that?" Wilbur had been a good tank commander above it all, above his rather odd personality and persona as a British man in the wrong sort of corps. He worried about his men, and, to the rest of his patchworked crew, it was alright.

The original tankers of the 7th MEU had still been on the USS Normandy, the MEU's home ship in the Tokyo Bay, rather pissed off that they missed everything thus far. However their temporary replacements in the Special Region had been called for by the Pentagon: Marines who had dipped their feet in the black gold that a world had bled for. Those Marines who had found or originally hailed from the energy industry the world over. They had done their work behind the scenes on behalf of Pierce and General Andrade, and what they found had been… surreal to say the least.

There was a saying: Another Earth would've been needed to supply the needs of the modern world coming into the twenty first century.

The tankers of the 7th MEU found that world, and they were there to make sure that America was represented rightly if the JSDF succumbed to the riches of what that Special Region offered them.

The corporal of Kingdom Come had popped out of his own hatch, a vaguely tanned man whose nickname had perhaps been the raunchiest of the group, paired with a man who one wouldn't assume would be paired with the title.

"Of all the ways to be fucked in this world, I don't mind this being the way." Schmack had been the loader, the man who had, behind Wilbur, been the most familiar with the token refugees and all of their quirks. Rory had been riding his shoulders for some misguided reason during Italica, after all.

The Abrams had been liable, to the uninitiated, to suck the air out of the lungs of those around it. Not physically at least, but by the very grace of being near it. As was the monster, the beast, that it was to the refugees. Even Rory after all her time had not met a more inhuman machine, which was why she was riding with Itami up front. The tank was able to keep pace with the Humvees, ATVs, and motorbikes, but still, even then, the other victors had kept their distance.

A brisk forty or so miles per hour across the great plains of Italica heading away from the Corridor wasn't really warranted, but the would be dragon hunters knew that they did not slip out from Italica's defensive position quietly.

In fact GHQ, Camp Omega, had radioed into the Warlord, however Yanagida had covered for them. Save for their own personal communications, they were radio silent. Yanagida had made the promise that Blackburn wasn't able to fulfill for Wilbur, and they had disappeared to do what they needed to do… at least until Pierce or Sevson noticed the fact they were down two tanks.

So the morning at least, and by that time they would've been long gone.

"Yo, Dixie, ease off would ya?!" Wilbur had yelled into Kingdom Come.

The named driver had deferred his answer off to the commander, the man slicing his flat hand over his neck and shaking his head in the negative, if only by habit, he was stuck in the driver hole with the peddle to the metal. "Gotta put as much distance between us and Italica as we can."

"Well shit Dix, you make it sound like they might smoke us."

"Better safe than sorry." Dixie was a particular type of Southern boy who was liable to be labeled white trash by his comrades. The type whom was liable to sessions in the county jail or, at the very least, wary about doing wrongs, if only because of the consequences he had known.

"I hardly consider safe going after this fucking lizard!" Bannon's voice had been hard to read already, given its gravelly quality, the roar of all the victors in the convoy hadn't added much to the clarity. To hear her voice cut through on what was usually Kingdom Come's private communications was startling, but being scared of Bannon wasn't something that the tank crew was going to deal with as the night rolled over.

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 62_**

 ** _Falmart - Warlord 1-3 "Kingdom Come" - Egressing South East of Corridor via West_**

* * *

Bannon and Ramirez's saddle bags bounced along with them in the chevron formation they formed around Kingdom Come, Itami and Lumaban's Humvee leading the pack. The Rangers did a lot of packing on their own for such an incursion, but it was on short notice, and Itami had only packed for himself and Chuka. To add Lumaban's fireteam and the tankers to that equation meant that, whatever the case, whatever they were going to do, they had to do it fast or starve.

It was a rather diverse group, between the Marines, the Rangers, the Refugees and the singular JSDF personnel that had been Itami. In the eyes of those who were unfamiliar with the Special Task Force, it might've been the most cooperation between the groups ever since they had come over from the other side.

It was a rush all the same however: rushing into the unknown, the darkness, toward a goal that had been grand enough to be worthy of a fantastical tale. Killing dragons was what Marines supposedly did, according to the commercials pre-Gulf War, and if there wasn't an iota of inclination that had made all the doubts of abandoning their posts and orders right in that, their crusade would've been over before they began.

"We running all night?!" a voice from the radio, cut above all the backchatter from a Corridor that was getting increasingly and increasingly hectic. It had been one of the Rangers.

Itami's garbled radio had picked up. "Until morning, then we'll find a place to rest."

"Shit, and here I was thinking I was going to be able to sleep on this!" the gunner of Kingdom Come had very much loudly exasperated, his knuckles rapping against WIlbur's legs in some disapproval.

"Ah you can sleep when you're dead Chains."

"Look, I already been in jail once, I ain't looking forward to doing it again because of a military tribunal. I mean, fuck! Everyone but us has an excuse!" he took off his headset as he Wilbur leaned in.

Yao had been pleased to see the wood ornament she had crafted for Wilbur had been glued onto an open shelf.

"Look, Itami's got the resource survey shit, the Rangers got General Andrade and Colonel Pierce covering their ass, and all we got is our good morals, you dig?"

Accusation, disappointment, worry. All had been delivered by the man who had gotten his nickname from being in jail once to a Wilbur who had been trying to stay out of his own chains on his own.

"Look, this is gonna be worth it. Promise! And I'm the one who's gonna cover your ass if things go to shite." As a good TC should.

So all he did was simply shake his head and put his headset back on, Schmack shaking his shoulders a bit reassuringly before the man had leaned his own against whatever backing he could find in the constantly vibrating and shaking home of theirs.

"Come on bro, you didn't make this much of a stink after Italica or when we first came in, and least we know we're gonna do something good at the end of this."

"I guess third time is the charm for me!"

* * *

The Humvee that Lumaban and her four men took out had been mounted with an M134 minigun with enough ammo to (probably) make at least one dragon annoyed. The Ranger Humvee had mounted an M2 Browning.

RCT3 and Hitman had been the hook line and sinker in regards to dragon combat, as obscure a subject as it was, especially Hitman Actual and Bannon's counterpart in Team Two. For the broad group, it was the first encounter with the flame dragon and how royally they had messed it up according to the post-action report. How small arms fire was just dumped on the hulking beast when the explosives and anti-materiel ordnance was expelled, and how they never gave up the fire.

Perhaps that had been the golden rule in all combat mastery, across time, disciplines, and tactics: to never give up.

Emerson and Masterson had, according to the ever popular CCTV footage put up on the internet, used their bare hands to brain and de-eye a dragon just minutes after Zero Hour of the Ginza Incident.

The 134 could provide the appropriate volume of fire. At least until the 120mm gun was able to find bead on that giant red abomination of nature. If a Panzerfaust was able to mutilate it, the M1A1 would've been able to do something scores more deadly. Assuming they had the opportunity, the element of surprise or action. However, as obscene a topic it was, a lot of thought was put in, by all parties, about how the beast would be killed.

To some, the Flame Dragon was just another target, some unceremonious something to line up in their sights as they pulled the trigger until terminated.

However to the mass majority, the grimmer thoughts of horror and suffering were at the forefront. Thoughts they would not associated with any human or humanoid target, brought to the light with the thought of a beast.

If Yao had her way, they'd all don swords and chip away at its scales and flesh as it was tied down, helpless as its flesh was carved.

If Chuka had her way, she would've let the dragon live, but only for whatever it held dear to be crushed and burned away as she had to suffer for the rest of her life.

If the Rangers had their way they would simply just blow it up and be done with it and continue looking for the lost American(s), the lost people of Japan held in chains now.

The Marines, fireteam and tank crew, had been different though. Caught in between. They agreed that the dragon had to die, but to what measure? And what would it solve? Would it have been worth it?

They were alone in their thoughts as, finally, the radio chatter from Arnus had buzzed out. They were cut off.

The inside of Kingdom Come wasn't terribly illuminated, just the perpetual glowing of their screens and optics shading the grey men inside, dome lights giving off a surreal blue. A comforting, yet cold blue. The color of late night in the cities, the forgotten corners of the night illuminated by the neon of human endeavor against nature.

Alone in their thoughts, the realization that they, in every term, no matter the excuses they had after the fact, had gone AWOL.

Along the turret's inside walls hadn't been the most PG-13 display, courtesy of a collage between the crewmen, girlfriends that once were, cut outs from PX magazines now coming over, and, perhaps uncomfortably, some of the local girls. The images of the beautiful women, human or humanoid, had resounded on the other side. Any Marine could appreciate the image. Any Marine could also appreciate they had been exposed to the sources of those images, both drawn and otherwise, on the day to day basis in the Special Region.

It was a nice place for the gazes of Schmack and Chains to daze out on in the comforting rumble of tank movement.

Luckily that gaze had brought them before a drawn picture of Chuka before anyone else had noticed and remembered.

Chuka had been a very public figure given her testimony at the hearings. Public in all the right and wrong ways.

She had the looks to be as such, which, in that case, resulted in both Schmack and Chains giving each other a knowing, worried glance before tearing off the taped off piece of artwork along with a few of Rory. Anything to avoid any internal conflict on the mission.

No need to explain later.

Kingdom Come had been a home, a workplace, and occasionally a restroom during choice situations. The piss bottles had all been throw out beforehand, but it was very likely more would come again on this elongated "mission." As such it had been decorated with its own niche, differentiating itself from the rest of the Warlords. The most striking difference between the Warlords had been the name of it on the gun barrel, but inside had told the story of some of the men going on this crusade.

It didn't matter to Chuka or Yao however. Cold as that sounded, it didn't matter who these men were except for that they were willing. Willing to be dragged along with the Man in Green and the Rangers to wherever fate had their fight for them.

The terrain they were on was not rough: the same plains that had surrounded the Corridor all the same, so they were safe in that, as long as the one of the Rangers didn't flip their motorcycle in the dark.

A female voice broke that uncomfortable silence. "Assassin 4-3. Anyone got intel on the road forward? Over."

"Itami. In the morning we'll pick up the route Yao used to get here, over."

"Copy. Out."

Yao had heard the comm chatter through her provided headset up in Itami's car, she relegated to the back and sitting with Rory, Lelei upfront, soaking it all in.

"Then I don't suppose anyone got music?" Lumaban asked frankly.

"...Really?" A voice from the Rangers. It was a Boston-tinted voice of some disbelief, but a groan later the hum of a song from Masterson's Throwback Mixtape had been flipped on. He'd been willing to share it throughout the team as one of the Rangers mounted their phone or music player onto their chest, letting their mouthpiece pick it up.

The song had started slowly, the sound of a slow tapping and an electronic hum. "It's what we do, here, right? Play some fucking moto music when we're going off to do our thing." Perla talked to herself, justifying it as the song melded into the dark, the convoy still continuing to follow Itami into the unknown. The Corridor had long disappeared behind them. The world had narrowed down to the barely lit circles which each of the vehicles made as they rumbled along.

* * *

 ** _Now Playing:_**

 ** _In the Air Tonight – Phil Collins_**

* * *

Bannon would've been the one to protest the music being delivered into her ear over the radio, but she didn't. She would've let her men have their music. She of all people knew what music did to one's state of mind she reasoned, her Oakley covered hands gripping onto the handlebars of her cycle without hitch.

She had found a point to focus on: forward. Toward the dragon, toward peace of mind and closure. She did this to herself constantly, for better or for worse. Forgetting where she had been and only preparing to deal with what was coming: a left over skill, habit, from a life lived day to day.

 ** _I can feel it coming in the air tonight_**

 ** _Oh Lord_**

 ** _I've been waiting for this moment, all my life_**

 ** _Oh Lord_**

Itami, he hadn't been as gifted in English to understand what the classic song that denoted such midnight riders such as them had meant. Lelei however, Lelei and Rory, they knew better. They knew it was their hymn, at least for that night, on the precipice of the unknown world with a mission that betrayed their allies.

 ** _Can you feel it coming in the air tonight?_**

 ** _Oh lord_**

 ** _Oh lord_**

Wilbur had rested one of his bruised elbows on Kingdom Come's turret as he leaned on it, riding in the open air from his hatch. "I can dig this." he said, into the air at no one in particular.

There was a reason he was called English, after it all. Phil Collins and he had shared the British blood and the British tongue to a point.

"Of course you do, Wilbur." Black had said from his turret mount, the man handling the vibrations of the Ranger Humvee with his exo supported leg. "Phil Collins was one of Britain's best creations, asides from, you know, America."

 ** _Well if you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand_**

 ** _I've seen your face before my friend, but I don't know if you know who I am_**

 ** _Well I was there and I saw what you did, I saw it with my own two eyes_**

"I'm actually Scottish. Grew on the mainland however. Fuck, even then, I renounced my citizenship a while ago." he had lamented.

 ** _So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you've been_**

 ** _It's all been a pack of lies_**

Lelei's voice had stopped them all. She did this often, in the express interest of clearing the air: of making known what sides were talking and from where. "Sergeant Alton Wilbur was a noted surveyor in British Petroleum's African and Pacific Operations from to 2019 to 2021 before exiting from his position and removing himself from the UK to California. His expertise in the field of resource pathfinding and location makes his transfer from Camp Pendleton to the 7th MEU's temporary replacement tank unit ideal."

The rest of the riders had been at a loss as to what Lelei had been saying, but Wilbur, he knew better at that point. _She was quoting._

"Who is that from, Madam Lelena?"

"Lieutenant Commander Blackburn, Sir Wilbur."

"Jesus fuck how old are you Wilbur?" Loke had stated. For a tanker, and a former oilman, he had hid his age well. Perhaps petrol had been good for the skin, a man who looked early thirties going on just below a shameful forty.

Though it was the same for most of the tankers: they were older. Many had even been out of the Corps until the Pentagon had rung them up in the middle of the night in an August a long time ago. Warlord Actual even, she had been a brilliant surveyor for Shell, up until she had faced the same horror Wilbur had himself and chose the path of alcohol.

The woman was an alcoholic, but she had been a Marine tanker, so she was brought here not exactly too happy about her situation. Captain Csintalan had been an Actual perhaps in name only.

That being said Wilbur had related to her more than he'd cared to admit. Down from broken paradises to broken bone on his Abram's mine shield.

"Old enough to drink." he had given that answer in some contempt, ducking his head back into the seat and staring into the green tinted screen at eye level. Thermal vision had provided him the blank view forward: nothing but plains to run over.

This presently had left Chains, the gunner below his legs, and Schmack, the loader on the other side of the turret, left with nothing to do but go over their thoughts.

They went out there with the excitement and the apprehension of taking on a dragon, but that wasn't what they were doing now: they were simply travelling. Travelling down some unspoken road into a dark world that they had been at war with.

Under any other pretext it was a suicidal mission… and yet, the pretext they were under had rendered it, if not safe, but padded, out of lack of any other terminology.

 ** _And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord_**

 ** _Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord_**

 ** _I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord_**

 ** _Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord, oh Lord_**

"Hey, Schmack, Chains, get some shut eye, would ay?"

Even sleep had put the most restless, the most troubled men, on their backs. Metaphorically of course. It was that blackness of mind that Schmack had feared.

"Not here, English. Not here." His former tank crew understood why Schmack had said so, why he had shook his head so defiantly, so erratically, lips being licked. However this hodgepodge of a fighting band was not so personally interwoven. Not yet at least.

"Of all of English's decisions and advice in the last twenty four hours, I figure this be best one he's given Schmack. You dig?" Chains was a bald man grown up in South Central, rubbing shoulders with the disenfranchised black youth of America he had been a part of. Straight outta Compton, as he often said, took on a new meaning during 2019 when the Civil Riots across America burned down LA in the same way Manhattan suffered.

His nickname had come from the tattoos around his wrist, embodying enslavement: chains.

Schmack had looked away dismissively up at his unbuttoned hatch, at the shaky view of the stars above. "Yeah, I dig, but I ain't sleeping."

"Is on you then."

Through his gloves Schmack clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig into the material. "Yeah, I know… I know."

* * *

Nutt had been the one driving the Ranger Humvee, Black manning the gun as per tradition with Loke and Harris in the back, Doc riding shotgun, his rifle leaning on the window frame.

Just for a second, disguised by the veil of night, some pretended they were back on Earth. Some pretended it was Iraq, 2003 and they were leading the charge into Iraqi territory. Some had pretended it was Iran, 2022, and Iran had challenged the world for control of the Middle East. Whatever the case it was normality they were looking for.

 _They were hunting a dragon._

 ** _Well I remember, I remember, don't worry, how could I ever forget_**

 ** _It's the first time, the last time we ever met_**

 ** _But I know the reason why you keep your silence up, oh no you don't fool me_**

 ** _Well the hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows_**

 ** _It's no stranger to you and me_**

"God this music is bumming me the fuck out." Loke had said from the backseat.

"I'm not even listening." Harris had said, chin on hand, staring out into the night, even as one of the most legendary drum beats ever had erupted.

 ** _I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord_**

 ** _Well been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord_**

 ** _I can feel it in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord_**

"Hey, Ramirez." Doc had called out in the dark to the other cyclist.

"What is it Decker?" there was a low, old growl from Ramirez always in his voice. It wasn't unkind as much as it was supremely understanding.

"You think what we're doing is right?"

Riding a motorcycle was second nature to the man, so he had no qualms holding a conversation. "Now why would you be asking me that?"

"You were a cop, Ramirez; you've been a Ranger for as long as Captain Kay's been alive. Just want to hear your opinion."

A few seconds passed, the rumble of travel underlining it all. "I'm not a big believer in that blur between right and wrong, I think it's just a coward's way of justifying means through an end they haven't found yet… so, in the end, yeah, I think this is right."

Bannon had chirped up, her voice calming. Not by nature, but by the contents of her words that she very much believed. "We are killing that dragon so that a poor girl can find closure in the destruction of her clan, all the while saving another people from sharing their fate."

Chuka had been oddly silent, even when she was mentioned over the radio. A silence brought upon by a fighting mind, unable to be seen in the rush of escape and darkness. Lelei was always more observant than most, opening her hand once to a ball of blue, unnoticed to anyone in Itami's Humvee, and snapping her consciousness to sleep.

The mage had been used to working behind the scenes nowadays.

The refugees had all been there only as passengers on the vehicle of, not the literal machines they rode, but the Rangers, the Marines, and Lieutenant Itami.

For the most part they were forgotten as they rode, Itami more concentrated on driving to make the small talk he had been used to with them all.

"But what about the JSDF? The Special Task Force? We're breaking their rules, right? Our own rules." Annel had been on one of the ATVs as she questioned herself and this whole situation. "It's like, if, I dunno, this dragon is **_Geronimo_**."

A code name which represented Bin Laden during Operation Neptune Spear. A legally dubious flight of Black Hawks from Bagram Air Base flew to Abbottabad to kill America's dragon. American military forces had infiltrated into Pakistan with little regard to the international rulings for the greater good.

It felt, maybe, just the same. This feeling that penetrated them all.

Though the origin of that code name, who owned it first, was also a victim to American war. The Natives of America knew that name belonged to a patriot, died fighting yet another guerrilla war against those who claimed the land of those united states from them. Tomahawks, Apaches, Black Hawks, Kiowas, Iroquois, Chinooks... it was a common theme for Americans to borrow the names of those that came before them to be placed upon their machines, monuments, and moments.

"Well, Annel, here's the thing. You do what you do, what you need to do, just let it happen. It's only in retrospective do you truly know that it's right." As the former police officer had said.

Wilbur sneered from his side. "That's a bunch a bull, Sergeant Ramirez." he began, the sound of nicotine gum being chewed on by him punctuating. "There's always a grey area, a gradient. Just how life is, ain't no such thing as a perfect 100% in life, trust me I know."

He knew that BP always loved it when a would be oil deposit was a 100% guarantee, that was for sure.

Itami had hummed in his usual bored, but not unkind, drawl. "Just do whatever gets you through the day. Always been how I lived." Itami had been bothered by Ramirez however. Pops had been an amicable, grandfather like figure in all honesty, and he had no qualms in his taking of command of RCT3, however Ramirez was different. "Why aren't you a cop anymore anyway?"

Ramirez rumbled. "When the Race Riots in 2019 started I pretty much quit the job. Didn't want to get dragged through the street and to have bricks thrown into my windows." It wasn't that simple, but in the end he didn't want to participate in anything related to it: right or wrong, his duty or not.

Itami had barely any knowledge regarding that event during the summer of 2019. What he did know was that Kay hadn't wanted to talk about it as a black man in the thick of it.

"You get away clean?" Ortiz asked from his ATV.

"Had to burn my uniform to prove it, things like that, but I was good. Got my badge still with me though." the San Francisco PD badge in question had been whenever Ramirez flipped open his notepad: a holder with it.

Ramirez was lucky, in that sense. He did not dream of Italica: he dreamed of Race War and a Social Uprising that his profession would be carved apart for. Right or wrong, black or white, when the blue line broke he dreamed of bleeding out in the street as the police forces of America had their hearts held to the light and redone in a new image after one too many indiscretions from fellow officers of the law.

He'd rather die as Ranger, than die as a cop. He'd rather kill as a Ranger, than kill as a cop. Of all the violence in that world he had seen, from police man, to Ranger, to police man, to Ranger again, it was the domestic scene that mortified him the most.

"Must've been hard for your family, eh?" Black said, coldly, but understandingly. The Summer of 2019 was not kind to any major population center in America, he having been through it in Boston. Rumor throughout Hitman was that Emerson's first leadership experience had been during the riots, corralling his friends to defend their block in the Bronx. That particular rumor was kicked off after the then lieutenant had his lips loosened by drink once when pressed about his race, about what he felt exactly about it in the New America.

"They understood." Ramirez had said. "I was a cop first, then a Ranger."

"Sounds like a step up, sergeant." Itami pressed on.

It was an insult to Ramirez, but one he had flicked off. "I'm a restless man, Lieutenant Itami."

It never leaves: that desire to do good despite it all. That is what Ramirez had fallen under as he found a new calling, underneath another career. But it was as they said (and he had long realized this), the road to Hell was paved by both the innocent, and good intentions.

In his lap Doc had unveiled a small hard case, Chuka's initials written with a marker on it. Taking it out and unclasping it, those that were in the Ranger Humvee peered in: a small container, no bigger than a usual HPA tank. Attached to that had been a mouth piece that went over one's mouth and nose.

Doc had made a slashing movement across his neck and then pointed at Nutt's radio. The Rangers in the car had followed, silently cutting their feeds to the rest of the group for a second as Doc had looked them all in the eye.

"Chuka's learned in magic abilities in ways that can be harmful, lethal even." his jaw tightened as he said it. "If her psyche breaks down and is exposed to great stress, she might blow in ways I don't want to find out about."

In the dark Black had looked down at the items with his trained eyes. "We're going to put her under?"

"If necessary yes. This is the hardcore stuff, we have Lelei for any small episodes, but if she ever gets that bad putting her into damn near comatose is the…" he had flicked the safety on his SCAR off and on for a second. "I'd rather have her like Tracey, if nothing else."

The hard case was closed, but it never left the minds of everyone in that Humvee.

"How is Tracey?" Harris asked, his words cold, caring, but knowing what to expect.

Doc licked his lips as he looked up at the vibrant moon and stars above. He met his wife once, he remembered. It was just a month into the deployment in Tokyo, and Tracey's family, the O'Neals, had flown across the ocean just to see their man of the house. How utterly in love and in sync and perfect that the nuclear family that Tracey had provided him the teasing of many a Ranger, but they were a family that worked. From candy shopping for his daughters to romantic photos of Tracey and his wife, Madison, shot by a hastily requested Black in Ginza. It was the American dream lived.

"I don't read his reports, anymore, Brian." Doc said, almost pitifully. "It's the same thing, over and over."

A man in a straitjacket, rolling around in his own slobber and insanity inside of a mental health facility, crying for the blood of Romans and, in the end, in an ironic twist of the knife in Hitman's collective heart, cursing his once comrades.

As the Rangers left the Ginza Incident that day, Tracey in tow, quickly plummeting into the depths of calamity, he had requested them all this as he was dragged off:

 ** _"Kill them all! Kill them all!"_**

And when Hitman gave him no answer as they saw him last, they had all failed him as Emerson and Masterson felt the weight of death on their shoulders.

They were here for Tracey, yes, but being here for him would mean one thing that happened despite all their precautions not to.

They killed in his name, and slowly, very slowly, Tracey had been damning them.

It was **_selfish_** to ever think that way, the Rangers thought now. Tracey was not the only one who died at Ginza.

So here they were again, going off on another, concurrent, quest for revenge.

"Just put him out of his misery man." Black had whined, pleadingly, the last words of the night from Hitman as they rode.

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 63_**

 ** _Falmart - Somewhere above the Racka Plains_**

* * *

"Overlord Actual to Hitman Actual. Hitman Actual do you copy?"

We were deployed that night and only now were back in the choppers, the morning come in its pinkish, light blue haze.

When Overlord Actual called in I was bothered to the extent I could've be bothered. I've never really had problems with command in their infinite wisdom. Pierce was a good officer as far as I could tell. I hadn't been one of his Marines, but he had bled shoulder to shoulder with them during Korea, and I could respect that as much as anything.

Pina had said the same thing when she had found out his record: once again holding out on another hill in another world.

On the other hand I knew General Andrade from my first day in Japan. He seemed oddly fond of me and my Rangers, but I didn't think much of it.

I didn't think we would've had a problem as we were on station above that one particular cotton field full of slaves. A momentary diversion from our intended insertion point.

We were watching over the Japanese RCT team beat up the plantation owner over records of his slaves, making sure no funny business as far as we could've told. Well, all business regarding slaves was funny, but the Japanese were harsher on those that fucked their slaves and used them as common currency than those that simply used them as hard labor.

The JSDF would interview the slaves to determine to what extent they were abused by their owner, and a tribunal would be held in the Corridor between the JSDF and Commander Mercury regarding their punishment.

I put my fingers to my ears and spoke into the reciever.

"Hitman Actual. Go ahead Overlord."

"Be advised Hitman 1-1 Actual is off base on some objective. Over."

"...Roger. Interrogative Overlord. Over."

"Go ahead."

"Why is this a problem?"

"They took off with a few Marines, one of the Warlords, Itami, and the refugees, Lelei too. Over." I kept telling myself I was just barely a soldier. Just barely a man who had been out of West Point and Ranger training, but I'd been through enough, and, at the end of the day, whenever I came home, I knew the world would label me a veteran. "Is there something I should know Emerson?"

Of all my sins, I was not a liar. "Be advised Overlord, the JSDF via Lieutenant Itami is assumed to be hunting down the Flame Dragon. I suspect 1-1 Actual and any Hitman elements that followed were tasked by a JSDF Officer and followed by their own conviction."

"… Copy all, Emerson. You guys still tasked on your current op?"

"Affirmative, sir."

"Good. At least one team is out doing something we want. Standby, Wallstreet wants a word."

Masterson looked up as he sat, rifle between his legs. "The Dallas boy, right?"

I nodded. My, out of lack of other options, favorite Texan tuned into the call as well. "Wallstreet to Hitman Actual, how copy?"

"Copy you clear Wallstreet. Over."

"Anything to report?"

I looked back out to the fields again, seeing the slave workers looking up at us in awe of the machines we rode on. "Negative. JSDF got this emancipation locked down."

"Copy. Just for one last go around then because a few of your men seemed distracted…"

He was referring to Masterson specifically and how easily my Rangers picked up on each other's moods at times. **_Of course_** Cam was distracted. I clicked my radio to my entire squad. "Alright kids, listen up."

Blackburn had started in typical briefing fashion. "These orders were approved by Admiral Lincoln effective immediately under my purview: We're sending your detachment up to the base of the northern base of the Romalia Mountains, the natural border between Italica's holdings and that of Rondel, the academic heart of magic in the Empire." a few papers fluttered on the other end. "More specifically we're sending you to a town called Crety. Madam Lalena says that it was where a lot of wizards and wizardesses set up shop because of the plentiful trade and access to relevant natural resources. As such, it went dark around August, our time."

"Has Lelei ever been?" Perhaps I was mistaken in asking Blackburn that. I had been pretty unique in being able to call her my friend instead of madam.

"Urhhh, can't confirm, Hitman Actual." More papers ruffled. "Anyway, winds from the Western Desert, a sirocco, have been blowing occasional sand storms within the AO, so you'll have to insert by land. From there you will need to link up with Crety and confirm its situation."

Masterson had touched his hand over his scarf, making sure he had it before speaking up. "This is 2-1. How bad we talking? Dust Bowl or Dubai for the sand?"

Blackburn broke back into a language Masterson could understand. "Arizona in the Summer."

Masterson nodded his head with a shrug. "Not that bad."

It was bad enough for a General Konradi and his legion to constantly hunker down during their conquests. Konradi was an odd, neutral party during me and Pina's negotiating. I couldn't personally help but feel the man had his own motive, but any politician or officer had their own.

I couldn't also help but think of Seyton and Samnu and wonder if they were alright. I liked them in all honesty. Maybe a bit clingy, but helpful.

Blackburn continued. "Yep… as of right now the last UAV that we were able to throw that far recorded conditions just enough to keep you guys out. Conditions should probably be better, but better safe than sorry."

I knew of Crety and I did confirm Lelei's statement about it: it being some notable hub in the area, but I hadn't heard of its sudden lack of communication. Then again most information I got about outside of Sadera had been rather… well, groomed. "Hitman Actual. Wallstreet, do we have any on the ground sources to provide any intel about Crety? Over."

"Euhh, negative, captain. If there are any from Crety currently in the Corridor or Italica we haven't been able to find them, and no one has been in or out ever since it went dark. Over."

"Hitman 2-1. What should we do if we find slaves in Crety, over?" Masterson inquired.

Blackburn sounded less than interested. "I'll leave it up to you, captain, I trust you can make the right decision once you ascertain the situation on the ground. We'll keep a UAV within the AO to bounce any communications, but if your team goes dark captain we'll wait twenty four hours then send in SAR." Blackburn hadn't known where that particular protocol regarding the SAR had come from, but it was from a place close to Masterson and Emerson.

The pilot in the Blackhawk had made a motion with his hand, signaling they were exfil from the area toward their designated mission space, leaving the cotton fields behind. I had signaled a thumbs up.

"Is this same safety net in place for my Team One lead and Itami?"

Bannon had struggled to get an answer out as the man looked over his shoulder in the command room. Pierce and Hazama had been present, drinking coffee like old chums as the missions of the day were coming back in like clockwork in an almost therapeutic, videogame like way. "Negative. Currently Staff Sergeant Bannon is… tasked by the JSDF via Lieutenant Itami and their playbook is different, naturally."

"That's not the answer I wanted to hear, lieutenant commander."

"Not the answer I wanted to give Emerson."

Masterson had been shaking his leg against the floor of the chopper in anxiety, the man vibrating, wanting to go through to the other side of the line and cuss out High Command to keep his woman safe. He couldn't though. He knew his place. I reached out a hand to his shaking knee, keeping it still as I gave him an understanding nod.

"You gonna do what you can, lieutenant commander?"

"Affirmative."

"Copy all then, Hitman out."

Bannon had taken nine of Hitman, I seeing it prudent to take the rest before they went off on their own on some other ill-conceived mission.

Unlike the rest of the 7th MEU, my Hitmen were given each individual radio call signs. For example, Masterson's designation as 2-1, if he were in a regular infantry configuration, would've extended from him all the down his team. However he alone was 2-1, and the next man in the line up, in this case, Private Omar, was 2-2. So on and so forth for each of my Rangers during this deployment.

That being said I had a mess of 2 and 1s from the mix from Team 1 and Team 2 now because Bannon had gone off.

It took us two choppers to comfortably deploy still, the twelve remaining of us going out with our gear, but it was a solitary arrangement that got us away from Arnus, into the meat of the Empire.

I thumbed out two fleshy points, the color of my skin, taking off my helmet and cupping them over my ears.

My squad that was inside that chopper had given off some cheeky smile as they saw me reassume that rather profiled role I had fallen into again. Most of them bar Masterson however, he still lost in his thoughts. He would've been able to sort himself out however, on his own, his own mental dialogue was one I had no right intruding on.

"When in Rome?" That old tested saying or rather ironic relevance had been sarcastically thrown my way by the man on Masterson's left. Private Omar had been a good rifleman underneath Masterson's team. A good soldier, if not starkly optimistic in spite of everything. He'd been through his own trials as a child however, who he was was formed not here, but rather in his homeland.

Omar was a Kurd. A refugee from a new, official state born out of the ashes of the Middle East: Kurdistan.

It was a country full of people and politics that was as progressive as the Middle East was going to get, perhaps, if only, to be on the good side of the West and the world at large as the Middle East fell apart.

Turkey was a nation that had been a part of NATO, barely, as the 21st century came and went with the wars that transpired. A country that would've been the frontline against the War on Terror had adamantly refused to take its part in it. Not until it was too late. Fueled by the hatred born versus Kurds, the rhetoric of Islam and, to the Kurds, a homeland of their own occupied partially by Turkey, the guerilla war that escaped public focus had exploded in the mid-2010s when peacekeeping in the Middle East fell apart and the Kurdish were called a beacon of what a peaceful Middle East might be.

Kurdistan was officially recognized as a state as Iraq fell and Turkey had a gun held to its head by the rest of NATO when Iran developed nuclear weapons. The ground invasion of Iran had been, against the will of the Turkish government, prepared for within its borders. NATO had long since stopped playing the game however with the problematic country and, before the boot was put down once and for all, the Turks waged one last crusade of their own against Kurdistan.

It was in momentary war that spawned another hundred thousand refugees, and Omar was one of them.

"Do as they do." I responded to him, the man's dark complexion and fuzzed not hiding what kind of person he was.

"All these cotton fields are perfectly usable, sir!" he had pointed down at the fields and fields full of slaves and ranch hands still working, unbeknownst that their owner was being either beaten or beaten into letting his owned people go.

"Your point, Omar?" I knew how back breaking the work was, during some summers I worked in Connecticut's tobacco fields, just to get away from New York.

"We can get rid of the gears, but the machine is still there." he had remarked. "It'd be an awful waste to simply leave it."

Masterson had raised his eyebrow at the rifleman and what he was insinuating, but the man was right. I knew somewhat of the yields this Empire had access to and could put out, and I heard Yanagida often talking about a Japan that no longer needed foreign supplies in order to feed itself, to make itself, if they tapped into this region.

It was all usable, all here for the taking, and, perhaps, that temptation would be too strong.

But that wasn't our fight, our squabble over rock and gold. That was a job for politicians, and I was no man of political stripes. At least, not yet. One day, maybe.

The feeling of bone in my hands had come back as, without looking, my Winchester had gone into a scabbard on my back.

A hand had appeared in front of me. Cam's. I looked up at him and how he hid his worrying. "Another day another dollar Kris?"

I clasped it as our hands intertwined to a grip, a squeeze of insurance. "Same shit, different day."

* * *

 ** _Falmart – The Corridor – The Officer's House_**

* * *

Above and beyond the most successful business to come out of Italica, and more specifically, Delilah, into the Corridor had been the rabbit woman's café catering to, mostly, the NCOs and the Officers of the Special Task Force.

Legitimately that is, Lelei and Bannon's land ownership scheme making Bannon a very rich woman.

It was no secret to Agent Mitch that Italica's head of maids had acted on behalf of Myui to head into the Corridor and disseminate information of the Special Task Force from their drunken lips, but he had tolerated it for the time being. It was only natural. Spy work, the world and time over, had been the same.

As long as he had his pulse on this effort, he didn't need to squash it. No need to go hunting down another attempt at intelligence gathering if the locals got smart.

Delilah was smart enough though to even attempt such a thing.

For all her successes and trials, for what wealth she had gained herself and the Fromars by heading her businesses, she had laid her head in the same place she had ever since the little corner saloon turned café was made and given to her by Lelei: a room, about the size of a closet.

A room of her own, ever since the earthquake, she had shared with a familiar friend.

Given its size they also shared a bed, though culturally, for her, that was alright. The bunny warrior liters being as they were, closeness and personal space as a concept was moot.

She woke up as warriors often do: coldly, but not alone. An arm was draped across her form comfortably underneath the sheets.

It was Parna.

Emerson had been acquainted with Parna at Akusho, underneath his assumed identity. Samnu and Seyton had introduced her to him, if only because he had wanted to meet the other prostitutes.

The two bunnies wouldn't realize it, but Emerson had looked at them in a way that was uncomfortable: the way a parent holds the truth from a child in times of strife.

In one of his reports that he had sent back to Arnus Hill regarding the Imperial Conquest of the Warrior Bunnies and the actual state of their former Queen, it was there Emerson was given the directive to not give any warrior bunny the knowledge of her survival.

Lelei had been more than divulging of the nature of Delilah's presence of Italica. She had been a refugee, even before the Special Task Force came. And, as was the theme of so many, revenge was always on her mind.

Revenge against the Empire, against Tyuule, against fate itself.

After having fought one such bunny warrior in Akusho's gladiator pits, Emerson knew why he kept his silence.

As chance would have it both of them had woken up at the exact same time, and silence was their mutual greeting as they rose from their feather and hay supported sheets, in that room illuminated by a PX bought LED light that mirrored the light of the sun throughout the day.

It was handy in a room without windows, and it served as the light that they had basked in as another day met them.

"Not indulging in a little extra headrest, Parna?"

Her jet black hair had covered her face and her ears as she rose, ruffling it to free her extra hearing implements (the bunnies technically had four ears as it turned out), the left one a stub of what it once was.

Owned bunny slaves in the Empire were marked as such, it was Parna herself however who had inflected it.

It was a year ago when she gave up the chase that Delilah had carried her on: that revenge question against Tyuule, leaving her and a child bunny: Griine. She had accepted her fate and surrendered to passing slavers to be brought to Akusho.

She was tired of the life she was living: of the dirty living, and the day to day trials that rendered her a miserable refugee looking after some objective that only Delilah could see.

She found herself as a fuck toy and a maid underneath Bessera in Akusho, so, in the course of events Falmart found itself in, she had seen firsthand what the Special Task Force could, Kay's Demons, do.

They served her, she had reasoned, as a one eye'd woman claiming to represent Kay had told them.

Kay himself had said nothing.

All roads led to Arnus however and as the Capital was shaken apart she found herself reunited with Delilah: she having been taken under Lord Fromar's own collection of workers before he died during the invasion.

"It's just routine for me, Delilah. No rest for the weary." she responded, all Delilah doing but cheerfully leaning into her friend's shoulder.

"Good morning Parna."

"Mmm." she returned in a rumble from her throat. She was getting used to pleasant awakenings, as abrasive as they were to her hardened psyche. It was a miracle in her mind that she had waken up at all.

Delilah had been quick to scoop her up from the prostitute crowd that came with Blackburn back from Akusho, giving her a job along with her at the Officer's House. It kept her close, as was Delilah's honest reasoning. A budding home for the Bunny Warriors.

Many more bunnies had been under treatment at the Arnus Hill hospital, most of them literally raw after their preferred usage after their enslavement. Delilah had hurriedly asked that all of them, upon release, be released to her, however the first of her kind to be release wouldn't be ready for at least a week. The humanoid species that were in Arnus were kept longer, if only because of the vastness of medical data that was being collected from them during their treatments.

For the meanwhile however, only four bunnies were free in the Corridor, and those four, for the most part, had been the same as they always been: survivors of the Empire's conquest. There had been one other Bunny Warrior in the Fromars, however she had been an Imperial by her raising: a generational effect.

Delilah had looked down at her for that, but her insults only went so far, her head so deep in her own musings about the cruel Empire.

The process to their start of the day was like any other honest job in that world or the world over: even creatures such as them had their human routines of washing up, of looking at themselves in the mirror and seeing if they were who they were.

Delilah had been okay with this process, eagerly glancing at her reflection at the mirror in her room as she had made small, morning talk about what she was expecting for the day and what regulars usually came.

Parna had made small noises, hmms and ahs, as she acknowledged her words, but soon those had fallen away as Parna copied Delilah's routine and looked at herself.

Parna's sudden silence was louder than even the scream of a jet fighter. The presence of silence had made Delilah cautiously turn around, only to see the other bunny frozen mid action, the reflection that had been captured in the mirror showing her eyes wide, and empty.

Delilah had seen Chuka wander the Corridor enough to know how it started. The descent into madness. The Special Task Force had called it PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The Japanese had called it weakness. The locals had called it merely an aspect of life.

This was her life now. This was her life and the life of the unheard, the unseen majority of Italica: those that had survived the battle, both as a civilian and a combatant.

Parna had shuddered as she had seen her scars at the hands of Akusho and Bessera: at the hands of the Empire. Scars covered by faded fur and tough skin, a reward for her living. In any world, in a right world, survivors were supposed to be treated kindly, with open arms, taken care by society for failing them and letting them be not only witnesses, but participants in the darkest deeds of history. No sympathy had been there for her as the Empire saw her only as another claim to be had.

Maybe, just maybe, if she lived on more, she would suffer as well. It was how life had turned out for her.

So she froze, looking at herself in the mirror, the horror that she was alive written on the cold sweat she didn't know had transpired.

"Why. Just, _why_."

"Why what?" Delilah reached out, their fur warming each other as the younger bunny was brought into an embrace.

 _"Why did we live."_

And all the unspoken declerations and reasonings behind that had echoed in Delilah's mind in old patterns she was very much familiar with.

 _Why did we live and they die? What could I have done different? Would I be better off dead? Could I have traded my life for someone else more worthy to live? Why is this my life?_

"It is not up to us to question why the Gods chose us." that was what Delilah had told herself ever since the Empire's final battles across the grasslands came to pass. They were here for a reason. They lived for a reason. If that meant serving Myui and the Fromars for a while, then so be it.

Parna would learn, Delilah thought.

"Is it right, for us to be here?" She asked, shakily. "Is it right for us to be living this life?"

"We live a good life here, now. I will never regret that. But remember where we came from, and what we have to do. I'm sure our departed sisters will not blame us." And so Delilah held Parna there, running her worn hands over her clipped ear, calming her, letting her know peace as she had known, almost unfairly. The struggles that the two had known, just to survive to that moment, felt worth it.

And the only sound present was Parna's labored, cold breathing, warmed gradually as her mind took hold again.

Delilah had separated first as she went for her maid outfit.

"The Americans have a saying, Parna. A rather handsome man told me this while he bought coffee the other day."

"Hm?"

" _Another day, another dollar_."

And as the two had quickly gotten their outfits in order, their hair made for the coming work, they had hurried out the door, not noticing of the sealed envelope that had come for them in the night.

* * *

 ** _Falmart – The Corridor – Outside the Officer's House_**

* * *

Special operators had a habit one might've said. It was the same with Hitman in their posts up at the Formar Keep: they would loiter.

Akin to an animal pissing on a notable landmark or a tree, if it hadn't been for the sake of relieving itself, it was for the sake of marking territory, whether temporarily or permanently.

In idle moments between missions those operators would sit, squat, lean, lay, and do whatever idle special operators did in between deployments in one concentrated area.

A phenomenon one could see that very morning as the sun rose above the Corridor and illuminated the slacked forms of around six or so men from the 7th MEU's compliment of Marine raiders.

MARSOC. Of them: Valentine had leaned on the steps, the only one with his weapon still on him, the rest meekly just using their forms as weapons enough to intimidate any of the curious from bothering them.

No one had known when they appeared at the steps of Delilah's main business, but they had come to make business, all of them with a spent casing for their entry into the upstairs of the House where the Officers and paying NCOs were let in for special treatment.

Judging by how dusted their boots had been, they had been back from a deployment, out into Falmart. Overworked, but in their element.

Between all of them a rather concerning pile of cigarettes had appeared at the steps of the house.

" _Fucking shit-_ " one of the operators had mouthed off in the dawn with a blow. "When the hell is that piece of ass going to open up? She lives here, right?"

Valentine had scrunched his nose. Perhaps having a wife and a child incoming had made a smooth operator such as him mellow to misogyny. "Her name is Delilah, Bob."

"Yeah well she even sounds like a whore."

The irritability of the operators had been brought out, in the simplest of terms, because they were just fresh off of killing people.

About thirty or so people in fact.

An Imperial cavalry which had showed up to the particular site of slavery that they were deployed was promptly cut down by the operators. The Imperial legionnaires were rather dead set in their dying breaths on making sure, or at least trying, that the manifest of slaves on that site was never taken by the Special Task Force.

It didn't take more than two machine guns and Valentine's marksman rifle to make sure that they died trying.

Of course any usage of gunfire against the locals that wouldn't just leave them alone had made the operators mad. Mad at them for forcing them to shoot them.

"Dammit Jack, you sure they serve good shit here?" one of the operators had flicked another cigarette out into the streets. "Worth waiting?"

"Yeah, same shit they serve the royals and Madam Myui on account that a few of her maids work here."

"Is that what they call trickledown economics?" another operator asked in some sarcasm.

"If trickledown economics works why the fuck don't we get whatever the Rangers are running too? All we got are fucking duty kits."

As two of his comrades had talked about how much difference modern kits and rifles would be against the already disadvantaged Imperials, Valentine had simply huffed as brought his, by association with him, legendary rifle. The M14 based DMR that he used was still kicking with its rather spartan customization: simply a scope and a bipod. It was all he needed.

He was a good sniper after all, befit his title of America's Deadliest Sniper. He wasn't the only sniper in the MARSOC team, the other three also there, however it was only him and his spotter that donned a rather controversial design of SS on their shoulders. The design came from another war: and what it stood for was, in their context, Scout Sniper.

The original context was it represented the Schutzstaffel.

Anything that helped propel that edgy outlook of Special Forces such as himself of course.

That edge had helped stave off any of the curious locals (or JSDF) for that matter. Though in the low light of the dawn maybe two particular locals didn't see them.

A game of cat and mouse that many a man there had seen and been a part of. Not that they would be proud to state that.

To say this as a game of cat and mouse however would've been inappropriately stating what it was, for the participants were a human, a twenty something local who seemed well dressed, if not with a shitty shave.

"Oh please, we can talk about this, I don't have to pay you, but the money will come around once Mizari gets her cut, right?"

"If you don't pay me, you get nothing at all! We work for ourselves!"

One of her gentleman callers no doubt. This walk of shame was visible to all.

It was the sound of the slap that had made the operators stop merely observing and buck up. They had killed for less.

"Hey, buddy. Leave the lady alone, she don't want any of your business."

The girl had tried to dash away in that second but a hand had caught the back of her neck before she did. Those that had sidearms drew, but didn't point. It hadn't escalated, even as the man's grip on the small girl had tightened.

"Fuck off! I paid for her Americans! You people have a lot to learn about how we conduct business here!" the sound of his hand tightening around the petit girls skin was seemingly heard as she screamed.

 ** _"Please! Help me!"_**

 _"Like hell you did."_ And it was Valentine alone that stepped out of the shade of the Officer's House onto the dirt. These men, he said to himself, they only understand the threat from a blade.

He drew his own knife from his chest sheath fast, he closing the distance before anyone had stopped him, grabbing the man's collar as the blunt side of the blade was against the wrist of the hand that held the girl. "Hey, **_fucktard_** , you mess with the girl, you mess with me."

Madam Myui had honored Valentine as America had honored him. His face, his square face and stone like jaw was known. "You dare judge me? Killer of Italica? Isn't it a phrase you Americans use? Make love, not war?"

Valentine's eyes had twitched behind his sunglasses. " _Oh I'll fuck you real good._ "

The rage of men with the same pedigree as Emerson was not lost in that world as Valentine had pushed down with the cold steel of the knife, but not cutting. The man had reacted in the pain of assuming his wrist had been slashed, his hand letting go of the avian-like girl's hands and wings. Valentine's boot had swept at the big man's ankles, the fall predictable as the knife was reholstered and Valentine's own boot came back up.

A sniper was told about the importance of vital areas in their training, which made Valentine's next move itself predictable with steel toed fury, heel coming down on the man's crotch in one snap.

Every male that was witness to the boot coming down had all, instinctually, tightened their own legs as they thought they heard the pop, and definitely heard the scream. With the very same boot that came down Valentine had dig it under the man, only to kick him aside as both his hands covered his crotch and he screamed for his patron god.

"Get _the fuck_ outta here." Valentine didn't even look at the man as he crawled away into the shadows, leaving him in the middle of the street with only a saved girl.

That was his good deed for the day, he reckoned. It did feel nice.

It felt nice hurting a man for something so wrong.

"Nice one Valentine." the captain of the MARSOC group had casually commented as the weapons were put away. Another day in the life.

"Hey, don't you know you aren't supposed to be doing these types of things around here?" It was no secret to what that girl had been doing with herself and what that man had paid for. Around twenty five prostitutes had hitched a ride back from Akusho with Blackburn. When they touched down in the middle of the Earthquake they were supposed to be taken care of by the local responsibilities, namely Chuka and Lelei, however with the natural disaster ongoing they had little oversight as they disappeared back into the Corridor to discover the Special Task Force for themselves.

A handful had gone the way of a quiet life and education underneath the Red Cross like so many other immigrants and refugees come to the Corridor, but the rest, as Kurokawa had expected, fell into the old moves.

STALMP couldn't be as so much as bothered with enforcing the prostitution laws put in place by the Special Task Force. To the local police that they were, there was nothing wrong with it.

Whores would be whores in their view, and for them to make a living out of it was fair.

The girl before Valentine was young, perhaps the youngest he had seen out of that suspected bunch of prostitutes. Her hair had been more feathers than strands, her human like hands having the look and texture of bird claws. Her backside had revealed a tail of a sparrow, her legs being more bird than human.

She wasn't at all dressed, her shame covered by her wings, running alongside her earms and tucked in in some magenta shaded cloak.

"Thank you, so much, Sir Valentine." The sniper tightened face as he heard yet another title be placed upon him. She spoke the Lingua Franca, but he could deal. Even in the translation she had spoke sincerely, cutesy. She didn't even bother addressing his first questions.

He scrunched his eyes at her in the lowlight. Age was never a consideration for the people who partook in such a dirty business, which led to Valentine wondering how old this young girl before him was. The end of his deployment had coincided with the same time he and his wife had been expecting.

It was the fullest truth that Valentine wanted to become a father, and forget about being a soldier. He had taken his bit from the world and the world had owed him for it.

Some budding paternal instinct had emerged as he leaned around and look at the back of her neck, only to see it red from how rough she had been treated at that moment. Otherwise he had seen the bite marks, the nail scars, from other indecencies. It was a shame: the skin was like that of a child's.

"Why you out here so early?" he asked sternly.

"I'd prefer not to tell such a noble man." she had fettered, shivering. "I don't think that people such as you would… approve."

"Yeah? Well I don't think you would approve of half the stuff I do." he shot back, softly. The operators had watched the two only for a short while, the ruckus that the event that just transpired caused had gotten Delilah's attention, welcoming the Operators in after affirming that everything was alright.

Only Valentine's spotter had remained as battle buddies often do.

"Hey, Ryan, got a plus one?" he called out, knowingly. They weren't going to leave her.

He had signaled a thumbs up as he continued to look at her as snipers did: evaluating and scanning all the story he could. It wasn't a story he wanted to see.

Though she had looked at him back at barely half his height. To have survived that long in her occupation was to mean that she had her own observational skills. What she saw was that the legend of Valentine was not unlike the one of Kay Ro Bronxon in Akusho.

In the end, they both were only human.

"What's your name, kid?" Valentine had finally asked.

She held out a hand, emulating the Americans. _"Tyuwaru."_

* * *

 ** _Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega- Lieutenant General Hazama's Office_**

* * *

Pierce wasn't a yelling man. Though he was a man able to show anger in ways that didn't involve someone dying, such as with Lieutenant Colonel Noelle, he left his yelling to two other people:

Major Sevson and Sergeant Major Freeman.

They were paid to be angry, assholes when appropriate, and as such down the hallway Sevson and Freeman were yelling at each other regarding the fact half the Rangers, half their tanks, and four civilians (two of whom were important public officials) were away without leave or gone.

About a dozen of the JSDF officers in the Special Region had accrued there, in Hazama's office, Major Higaki still taking care of operations at Akusho. Why they had been there was a matter of policy.

Policy had been a great bane to American military effectiveness some said, but policy was a part of business, and to disregard it would render any army to nothing more than a bunch of folks with guns. It was no different for the JSDF in this world, in this conflict.

Today, during all the turbulence of the deployments abroad, Yanagida had sought to justify policy that was acted upon today.

If not he had no cover for Itami and his cohort.

 _"The Rangers aren't under my command or my organization, respectfully Major! I can't tie them down at all if I saw it fit to!"_ A snippet of Freeman's yelling at Sevson had come through as the last of the officers shuffled through the door.

Yanagida had been working up a sweat, with all the people here, it seemed like he'd done something wrong.

Before him had been an already prepared information packet pertaining to why Yanagida was there today and his argument. He'd been good at doing such things for all the politics and procedures of command.

Lieutenant General Hazama, his moustache neatly trimmed, had hardly fussed over it as he read into it. Meekly, he had regarded the last man in. "I don't suppose Major Sevson and his sergeant major are going to be done anytime soon?"

The officer shook his head. "Doesn't sound like it."

"I sympathize." he said simply, still calmly engrossed in Yanagida's report. "The Americans hardly have a fraction of what we're fielding here in terms of combat teams. To lose half of their special forces capable soldiers along with one of their only three remaining tanks is to lose a lot of manpower."

More specifically, the MEU along with the additional units from the other branches of the American military had rounded out to be about 2,500 men. The JSDF had fielded 10,000.

A JSDF Major had spoke up. "Losing one lieutenant hardly affects us, does it?"

Hazama shook his head. "Tactically speaking no, but that lieutenant was Lieutenant Itami and how we are losing him at this moment is of note… Yanagida." the man in question snapped tighter as Hazama spoke. "I think you know why you're here today… captain?" he had spoken a cue for a command staffer.

"Yesterday evening from 1800 hours to zero dark, Lieutenant Yanagida provided communique to the American command staff regarding the unauthorized deployment of a Marine fireteam, an M1A1 Abrams tank, and a compliment of Rangers underneath First Lieutenant Itami." the command officer leaded.

Hazama nodded at the man. "Any explanation for this, Lieutenant Yanagida?"

Yanagida steeled himself as he took in a breath. "Directive 5-304 of the Special Region Charter sir!" he stated firmly before quoting: "The strategy regarding resources and surveying in the Special Region, sir!"

The Special Region Charter had been the original document ratified by the Japanese Diet to allow the JSDF to "constitutionally" involve themselves into the Special Region while also, for the most part, staving off international actors.

The Special Region according to the charter was Japanese territory by grace of being connected to Japan, and that had been a reason enough for most of the outside forces, most namely China, to be held off in the meanwhile.

Though the Charter was not alone penned by Japan.

America was legally bound, on both ends of the political spectrum, to assist Japan in the Special Region.

It was for that reason provisioning for American actions was included as well.

One of the broader, umbrella conditions of the charter was the discovery of natural resources and the process of discovering them.

 _"If there is reasonable evidence to suggest a stockpile or significant presence of a natural resource, the Special Task Force shall see it fit to secure and maintain those resources by identifying and, if needed, negotiating with local powers."_

Some of the men in there had tightened up, fully knowing what that had meant: If there was a bounty to be had, they were going to take it. The great charter that it had been had been many things; many things but a declaration of war. Article 9 of the Japanese Constitution was still in effect, and because of that, for the JSDF, who had killed a near quarter million people in less than a year, war as an institution was outlawed.

And yet, the JSDF fought there.

After all, according to Japan, the Special Region was a part of Japan.

Japan, being a sovereign nation, could do **_what it wanted_** on its land.

"So the reason why Lieutenant Itami abandoned his post as the current leader of RCT3, corroborated with an unverified refugee, an enlisted the assistance of a main battle tank, her crew and security, as well as portion of the deadliest shock infantry that are being fielded on this side of the Gate, is for resources?" the lieutenant general asked with a straight face.

"Yes sir." Yanagida was sweating like any officer would who had seen and assisted a colleague in going AWOL. It happened more often during the Invasion of Iran and the NATO-ISIS War than people cared to think about.

"You speak the truth like it is a lie, Yanagida." The adopted truth. The truth which the JSDF could work with. The truth that they needed to take on or else lie to themselves about any other context. "Is it the truth?"

Yanagida had hardened his resolve. If Itami could do it, he could to. He could say yes whenever people could say yes, always be the good man who did what he was asked.

It was the yes men, the lazy ants who still pulled their weight, who created a generation anew by slicking the treads for people like him with ambition.

"The truth."

Four pictures of the refugees that came to Arnus had been on his desk. Pictures taken of them when they first were filed through for an ID to use in conjunction with official Japanese government documents that they held. They were the first of many in the Special Task Force to do so. If one wanted help from the Arnus field hospital they would have to apply for Japanese papers.

The notion of civilians from the Special Region immigrating to Japan proper had been a hot topic ever since the first days after the occupation of Arnus Hill on both sides, but the very fact that there still stood around 15,000 prisoners of the Empire in Japan, nothing would be done until that domestic affair was settled.

Still, that day would come, and they would all be Japanese at the end of it: the promise of two Japanese prime ministers to Japan. The Falmartians would be shown the way by them, without the Americans, unburdened by a past weighed down by a Middle Eastern quagmire.

"Then it is a lie then, that Itami acted on the request of a refugee from the Ducy Clan to kill the Flame Dragon? Or to bring closure to Chuka Luna Marceau?"

"Tertiary results. Byproducts merely."

"At the expense of temporarily losing the most knowledgable official of Italica and the Corridor's police chief?"

"I believe it was understood by Itami that the refugees that followed him were doing so by their own accord, and as such, he appropriated the necessary… equipment and personnel for such a journey with such important personnel." Yanagida had went on, falling into his grooves, into the very drawl and words that made the Marines call him "Ass Kisser". "And, in all eventualities, he is out there, and we are led to believe that the flame dragon and a very important strain of natural resources lies on the same path."

"So he is justified with all the manpower he is bringing for a simple survey?"

"Yes. We have no intel regarding Imperial military force in the Elbe Fiefdom or any local powers. Any preparation is good preparation in the case of hostile contact."

"Even in the case of a Flame Dragon?" Hazama asked, a pen that was in his hand tapping against the table.

Yanagida rocked his head yes once. "Especially." Whatever Itami did, he would be useful.

For Itami to die was not for Itami to die. For Itami to die was for the Man in Green, a Hero of Ginza, to die. An excuse to expand, to reinforce.

For Itami to live, to slay that dragon, would paint the Special Task Force like so many dragon slayers before in this world: heroic, courageous, and strong.

"And if he does get in trouble, Lieutenant General Hazama… would we simply leave him to die?" A dare, a question; something that even he couldn't say no to.

The officers in the room who had came here had all held their breath as they noted the move. It was ballsy. It questioned Hazama, a man who had seen men die under his command before.

He didn't see it that way though. Itami was just one man who found a reason to fight, to find flight from Arnus on his own Unsung War. He was disobeying direct deployment orders, but the indiscretion meant nothing but a slap on the wrist and disciplining later.

Hazama clasped his hands as he took in one breath, looking across the room and seeing the amount of officers that had served with him in Korea. He could count the number on one hand.

"It is popular conception that Japan, along with America, was asked by the South Korean government to assist when North Korea invaded, Lieutenant Yanagida." he addressed him specifically, looking past his bespectacled view into the eyes in his block shaped head. "That is completely wrong."

"Sir?" An officer from the back questioned where Hazama was going.

"The South Korean government was in chaos or destroyed by the initial strikes." Seoul was still being rebuilt, nearly half a decade later along with the State of Unified Korea from the graves of both North and South Korea. "There was no South Korea to save; just innocent people without a voice to call for help."

* * *

 _I was only a major back when North Korea broke. I was only a captain when NATO called upon its allies for the Invasion of Iran. Japan never sent any offensive aid for that crusade, we were still on the fence about our intervention into foreign conflicts. Because of that I was only a witness: we all were, as America and her other allies threw themselves apart in the fires of the Middle East one last time._

 _I could not do anything as the powers of the world blindly fought about conflicts they were a hundred years in the making._

 _Anyone who joins this Self Defense Force enlists to serve their country, to help people, and being helpless to do anything because of the constitutional constraints of that country is… troubling._

 _So I learned. I saw what the reports said, the day to day dealings and movements of the Coalition of the Damned as they fought, not only a war against the Iranian military, but also the people of the Middle East, the civilians who wanted them gone, or wanted themselves dead to escape the world as it was._

 _I saw_ _ **their**_ _mistakes, from then, and before._

 _Though those wars and conflicts were so far away. Very hard to put into focus, even if the belligerents in that war had taken some of our countrymen in cold blood._

 _When the Korean War continued, I wanted to go out there as soon as I could, I called my commander pleading: Please, if I don't go soon with my troops, the innocent will die._

 _I was the only one with my rank to request to go_ _ **into**_ _war, all for the innocent, for nothing else._

 _So they sent me with a JSDF division, and the rest was history._

* * *

"I heard this term tossed around, regarding Miss Ducy, Lieutenant Yanagida. In fact, some of you in this room spoke it to me: "What Would Itami Do?"" he stood up from his desk, pushing the leather roller chair out to only go to his window and look upon the new world, talking to the window and the sky beyond it. "In a right world, when the innocent cry for help without a power representing them, **_we should be doing_** what Itami is doing, even if that man is stupid for trying."

"Stupid or not, we just can't leave him to die." Mikoda had rattled off with a smile, a challenging smirk that spoke to arrogant pride in his own abilities.

"Exactly!" Hazama had turned around with such pomp it seemed comical. "We won't let him die. Colonel Kamo, I want the 1st Company pulled back from emancipations and put on standby in case Itami needs them."

 _"Yes general."_

"Lieutenant Colonel Kamikoda and Lieutenant Colonel Mikoda, I want your air assets at the ready. Mikoda, you're off probation and we'll have the Shinshins transferred in when the American lieutenant commander greenlights his new shipment of arms."

 _"Yes sir, general."_

 _"_ So we know what I'm preparing for? An incursion into the Elbe Fiefdom with a combat ready force?"

And not a single voice of dissent: of noting of how easy and how willing each of them were to disregard that border. Borders meant nothing if a nation could not uphold them. But what right did the JSDF have in upsetting those borders? And who had oversight over them in a world where America was busy in its own affairs of simply saving people?

In the end, it didn't matter. They were going to do what they were going to do, all because of one man.

"Everyone but Lieutenant Yanagida, dismissed." The officers in one great wave tightened their forms as they gave respect to their commander, the man saluting them all out as Yanagida kept still.

It felt like an hour to Yanagida as they all disappeared behind him, leaving only him and his commander. The general didn't linger as he sat back down, looking straight at the man.

"Wipe that sweat off your brow, lieutenant. I'm your commanding officer, not a sensei."

He did, but not without protest. "Why did you call the officers here? That many?"

"To tell them their orders in supporting Itami of course."

Yanagida grimaced as he adjusted his glasses. "May I speak frankly sir?"

"Be my guest."

"I thought you were about to publically flog me."

Hazama chuckled in some stark playfulness. "I won't admit it Yanagida, but you're the only one with enough tenacity, or fool hardiness, to try and beat the Americans at their own game. A necessary evil, if the truth is you are an asshole as most of the Marines report to Major Sevson."

Yanagida smirked in some self-pride. "And what game would be that sir?"

Hazama had ruffled his moustache as he considered the answer. "We have been offered their version of their dream, lieutenant. A world where we are in the moral right, the technological lead, and the citizens behind us who wish to do this world good."

"It's good to have dreams sir." Yanagida had looked outside to the coming day. "As long as those dreams aren't fantasies."

"And this region is no fantasy, despite what it is it."

"What is a fantasy is truly who had to die, for us to be here today." Yanagida raised his eyebrow at the general again. "The most popular number of reported casualties from the Ginza Incident from our government is nine hundred Japanese citizens. The Americans? Only twelve. Think about that Lieutenant Yanagida."

"One or one hundred, the cost of a human life is tragic sir."

"No Yanagida, think. Why are the Americans here?"

"Because some of their people were lost? Because they are legally bound to assist us in these matters?"

Hazama had seen his point come closer, but not enough. "The closest embassy to Ginza's ground zero, and indeed, it was overrun during it, was the Embassy of Albania. Similarly close are the embassies of Kosovo, Samoa, and Jamaica. People took shelter in the embassies of Afghanistan, Mexico, and South Africa among others during the battle, Yanagida and yet…"

"No other foreign nationals were captured or killed by the Empire." It was a fact that was hard to believe, but something the world had to deal with.

"Yes. A miracle, we are lucky in more ways than one in that sense. You have a hard enough time dealing with Blackburn regarding requisitions, and it is no secret me and Pierce had differing policy to follow regarding the Empire, but at least they are Americans and the Americans alone. Not the Russians, or the Chinese, or any Europeans states or those from the Third World. It is **_black and white_**."

Yanagida's face had soured at the thought of dealing with more than just Americans. Dealing with Itami and them had been enough for him to burn through enough cigarettes to actually concern him nowadays.

"Americans we know how to work with." the lieutenant said, finally.

Hazama agreed. "I've seen the Americans come fight their wars first hand, in Korea. We know what happened in the Middle East and how America saved face and instead fought there only for survival. They come, **_they always do_** , with a military might meant for people like the Russians or the Chinese, to confront nothing more than tribal people and villages bounded together only by trade and Kalashnikovs. They come and they kill and they torture and they make the youth of those countries hate them, and, how they try to redeem those actions is the idea only: An idea at the back of it; an unselfish belief in the idea that they fight for something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to..." the lieutenant general lost himself.

He was not American, and so he could judge. He could judge those who had gone to Afghanistan, to Vietnam, to the unconquerable lands of the world and came out changed.

He heard of what America did to those that fought against it, those that shared the same skin color, the same nose shape, the same religion as. Injustices he was bound by his duty to stop.

To think if Japan ever stooped to that level: having black sites within this Special Region without good cause, acting on the interests of big industry.

If only…

What they were doing here was for Japan and Japan alone. That is what Hazama thought.

Yanagida had held in a thought for a long time. It was a thought held every time he had talked to Blackburn, talked to Wilbur, and saw what America brought through the Gate. "It might be a problem if Lieutenant Itami discovers these resources, if there are resources, with the Americans. They would stake claim as hard as we would if it is important enough."

Hazama raised an eyebrow. "I won't give the Marines the opportunity to repeat their mistakes. Because of that I'll secure any significant resources whenever they pop up, whether Pierce is interested in them or not."

"It's for the better."

The lieutenant general nodded. "Yanagida," Hazama started tiredly. "You know how to maneuver, which is why I've made an aide of you ever since Ginza. If you're going to be the reason why Itami's venture goes on, then at least continue to smooth it out for him."

"Of course sir."

"King Duran is being prepped for negotiations regarding the Elbe Fiefdom's involvement in the Empire. I want you down there tonight to make sure we get what we want."

"And what do we want sir?" Yanagida couldn't help but feel a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Hazama had looked up at Yanagida with an expecting stare. He wouldn't answer, not when the digital display of Hazama's map had flashed between two versions: both the same on the surface, displaying Falmart with Arnus at its center.

One map had the circled locations of the various holdings where slaves were known to be held according to the records retrieved thus far. The other map had overlapped in many places with the former, however the content of that information was different.

Wherein one map had told where slaves were held, the other told what the slaves had been digging, harvesting, and discovering.


	33. 2-13D: Dirty Warriors

**_Section 2-13 Delta_**

 ** _Posted on 7/26/2016_**

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 63_**

 ** _Falmart – The Corridor – The Officer's House_**

* * *

Tyuule.

Her existence was to be kept a secret when Emerson had reported on her survival. Not any of the bunnies underneath the Fromar clan would come to know that their queen was alive. Regardless of what they each individually thought of her.

The reason for that secret was shown now, as Parna had found a letter unopened in her room and brought into to Delilah mid-day.

She could've read it a thousand times, or once, at the result would've been the same as the chill took her over in that hot kitchen of American make, the paper sliding out of her hands onto the counter.

"Delilah, what's wrong?" Parna's ears had noted how perked hers ears had been, how tightly she held the paper and the mark she left.

"Get _them_ all out."

"What? Who?"

"Those who came from beyond the Gate. The knights from Princess Co Lada's Order. Get them out of this place. _**Now.**_ "

"What's going on?" she asked, her foot put down as best as she could.

That voice, the ground up anger of a woman who had kept her revenge in place for a year, it broke out over the kitchen and all the staff in there. No arguments. No debate. _**"Just do it!"**_

A shock had resonated throughout Parna and the rest of the staff. Even if she had only been talking to Parna it was no doubt that she would've turned and asked them what the hell they were doing.

Mid-day, while missions were on and the JSDF and Marines were both preoccupied with their operations, both the general seating area and the officer's only area had been usually empty, however there had been a few who were scooted out on request. Not that they had any reason to say no or defy. Multiple excuses, some flimsy, some not, but whatever the case those who were modern and from the Rose Order were shuffled out.

As Bozes had shuffled out Delilah had caught her gaze for but just a second, the worry in the blonde's eyes not understated. She hadn't heard from Sadera Hill ever since the earthquake. She hadn't heard from Pina at all and the Special Task Force had told her nothing but to stay put.

It was tragic then that it was Delilah that supposedly heard from Pina first.

"Delilah, what's going on?" One of the cooks had asked concerned, in the middle of preparing an entrée. The staff there had all been of the Fromar ilk, or, at least, served them.

"Orders from Madam Myui." That was the truth, but not the whole truth.

Those that remained in the restaurant had been somewhat tuned into the distresses of Delilah, seeing her through the two way window between eating area and kitchen.

She was always the flower of the restaurant.

"And here I thought we'd forgotten about the spying stuff." the cook had grumbled as he had shut off the modern stove. They were among the only ones in the Corridor able to safely use such equipment without burning the place down.

Then again Lelei had recently put in a city ordinance to establish a "Fire fighting" force, to the ire of any magicians or wizards that had wielded flames.

"It's not that." Delilah had shot back.

The politics and the relations between Delilah and the Fromars was not something Parna had felt. Something that gave her the duality of intent between following her heart, her saviors, and attacking the Special Task Force.

Parna had also not the outright hatred of Tyuule: the Queen who united all the bunny tribes, only to turn them over to the Empire in the end.

"Myui has ordered this from Princess Pina: Assassinate Zorzal's Escaped Slave. _For her. For the Peace of this World._ "

Myui's staff had all hardened and silenced in the kitchen. They were bound by the same measure Delilah had been: spying on the Special Task Force, gathering information, but with no inherent malcontent.

This order was different, radical even.

Myui, the Fromars, Princess Pina, those words had been lost on Parna. Who they were hadn't been important, hadn't even crossed her mind. She was not victim to what the Special Task Force had done to all in the Corridor.

To her, even after it all, it wasn't personal.

"How does Noriko's death put our world at peace?" Parna asked.

"It doesn't matter, Parna." she had tightened her fist, " _ **I don't care.**_ "

"What do you mean you don't care?!"

"Because if we succeed in killing Noriko, Tyuule will be given to us. That was Princess Pina's promise in this letter."

Parna had grabbed the shaking fist of Delilah. "And giving up this good life is worth her?"

"I've been dead ever since the Empire came, Parna. I want to see Tyuule dead with me, at the end of it."

"You honestly think the JSDF or the Marines will let that happen?"

"If it means finding Tyuule, I'll kill them all." She followed Delilah. That much Parna had admitted, she had been the light she followed in the dark after her home was conquered by a foreign force. Though she led her here, to another force, to another unwinnable war.

 _And she followed her still._

She strayed from her once, and ended up a prostitute in Akusho. Perhaps sticking with her was a good plan.

"Just you and me, Delilah? We can't."

"But we're not alone, are we?"

She looked out upon those that were left, those that looked up at Delilah: a symbol for the community of the Corridor. They would do what they were asked from her. That was the respect she had for doing what she did for Myui, for the Fromars, accepting all into her businesses.

Or perhaps they would do it for her beauty and the charisma she wielded.

Whatever the case they would follow her for good reason, even if that reason was otherwise horrible in nature.

Orders were orders.

* * *

 _ **Seven months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **Japan – Ginza**_

* * *

It was the same story from year to year. The workings of the special forces throughout the world were the same at the advent of the War on Terror to today, even after that war ended. That war was something of a crucible for modern warfare to be forged in, the trials and different styles and tactics preformed in it survived the war.

So too had survived the balaclavas, the Adidas track suits, hoodies and plain clothed assortment that hid men of a different stripe.

To any of those that had seen them on the street, they looked like tourists, tourists with a rather retro fashion sense that attested to jockeys or gym rats. So no one had paid them mind as they had all wandered, one at a time for half an hour intervals, into one of Ginza's less trodden alleys, adorned with boutiques and fast food shops and places away from main street Ginza.

The Ginza district had been, sans its center, host to the Alpha Point: the Gate, back in business in everyway. From doujin, to anime, to the swank shops of various niches.

One of them were closed for business at that day. It always was.

But for today, there was an exception. Even as an employee had come up to the locked doors on the inside, only to be brained in broad daylight in an action, quick as lightning.

No one had noticed the door being opened and the employee's body being dragged inside the dark store by one man. No one had noticed how that man had assumed a role of employee and welcomed further track suited men into the store. No one had care, or noticed, that the door was closed indefinitely as the sign that stated it covered a spidering bullet hole in that glass.

The safety shutters went down, the night vision goggles went on from their duffel bags and backpacks, and the door to this supposed ero shop's basement meant for those who wanted to whack it on the spot was opened.

From those bags had come PDWs and rifles as well, bags put over their ejection ports.

"Where's the captain?" One of the track suited men had asked as they stacked up against the basement door frame, the sound of people, voices, down there traveling up in increasingly curious fashion.

"Secondaries. He's got them covered with Marx."

"Well, time to do our part then."

And that part had included the ball shaped gadget on their forms, hoisted on their belts, the straps of their bags, and even on their wrists on bracelets. Within their forms had brewed this: A self-contained microscopic nuclear reaction which culminated in a constant pulse of gamma radiation in an area no bigger than several rooms. That had meant a powerful electrical field that would surge, overpower, and terminate any non-case hardened electronics, lights included, for as long as they hadn't destroyed themselves or were within the range of the device.

EMP emitters as pioneered by the dirty wars.

Propelled by dirty warriors.

The activation had been signaled by a shrieking tone, and with that, lights out.

 _ **"Davai! Davai!"**_

* * *

Today Bando Yoshiyuki woke up with the new lease on life he had ever since the Ginza Incident: that new rush of justification in his life choices ever since he had gotten out of his dull routine of smuggling weapons and coke.

Before it had only been the monotonous routine of dealing with the Ginza branch of a particular crime syndicate which had taken hits ever since Hakone. The evidence left at Hakone, some cluster fuck between the Bratva, the Triads, and the Yakuza had put a renewed focus on organized crime throughout the world.

The Yakuza in particular in Japan, they had taken the lives of several SFG members in their attempt to take a piece of meat from the VIPs.

None of the evidence would lead back to Bando however, he was reassured of himself. Not when he was doing copious amounts of his product for an award for his good service, not when he was putting headphones on around his ears and unnoticing of the slight commotion behind him in that refitted basement complex that had existed for who knows how long.

 _My right hand man will handle it. He always does. He always does. Never asks for much either. Not very picky he is._

Of course he hadn't seen his right hand man ever since Ginza, but he was always reliable when it came to strong arming the Bosozoku that had been harassing some of his runners or getting payment from those that lived in the other wards of Tokyo.

He was deceptively strong, foreign, a chip on his shoulder which he had empathized with. Just like any good lapdog.

Yes, he thought as more men had looked distressed at some unknown presence behind him, beyond the door to his back at the sorting table, white covering his appropriately white polo (he had done coke in a black suit before, it was almost too obvious what he was doing).

The men he had down there were just the usual lowlife that the Yakuza used to run their operations, they were paid well enough to not mind not doing any of the product, to stand at attention in a dank basement all day.

Paid enough to use those North Korea rifles in their hands? Perhaps not, but certainly not well enough to die.

Not as, looking up from his cutting knife, to see two men which had just been standing now on the floor amongst bags of product and the white ceramic getting distressing red.

"Hey! You're ruining the prod-" His headphones were torn off by a hand as he realized that he was in the dark.

When did it get dark? Why did my music stop?

The answer lied behind him of course, and what he had seen was the black, barely visible form of a man with two, barely visible green dots where eyes had been look at him.

Run? Yeah, run, that was a good idea. He always ran faster when fucked up on the good stuff. He was always a better man when he was several snuffles deep into a powder. It was how he survived Ginza after all.

Maybe the Yakuza could've sold to whoever those Romans were on the otherside of the Gate, he thought as he had dove under the table, dust and powder flying, as he made his way to the other door in the room to the other basement sections.

More figures, more green eyes, more men falling and ruining the product with their bleeding out forms, bone, and whatever else had come from them. The Yakuza had prided themselves on getting the purest stuff out.

He didn't stop the berate them. No, those black figures had been punishing them enough. With bullets.

He heard his heart in his head, the _thwump, thwump, thwump_. Or maybe that had been the silenced gunfire echoing throughout those tiny halls, those small rooms.

So many good idea! So many thoughts! His heart was just pumping at himself! He needed to live, maybe tell someone about it! Maybe his boss. His boss had good ideas, didn't pay him in cash. Only the good stuff.

These people were everywhere! Who were they? Were they people? Perhaps ghosts more like it. Maybe he had the first confirmed case of ghosts right here, haunting him.

Faster! Faster! He thought, almost to the door, that steel door which was his escape, his savior if he closed it behind him. Saving graces always had a duality of course, most blatantly one that opened on him, toward him, the blinding light that flooded in only stopped by the silhouette of a man covered in dark.

Bando's momentum was too much, he tried to stop, trying to shift on his heels, but the man in black had reached out with a gun, a thick black suppressor reaching out.

No flash, no theatrics, no comfort in the cold, ceramic tiles as suddenly a hole was in his shoulder with searing pain.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to go, no time left to live.

Realization had been most effective form of cold turkey, and it had hit him as if he had been shot.

Also he had been shot.

The only reason why he wasn't dead was because of the reapers themselves: He would go, only when he allowed.

Their dark shadows had passed over him as suppressed gunshots had put out the wheezing of his gang behind him, their heavy footsteps barely stymied by the blood they stepped in. Of course, there was only one person left to hear them.

 _ **"He was a mole, you know."**_

Bando could barely hear as his hearing was hollow with the pain he was enduring: the shot in his shoulder being used as the silhouette's boot had picked him and forced him against the wall in a sit.

"Who- who are you?" Bando had tried to mouth, to ask, but all that came out was the barely there breaths of gasps and pained expressions. The silhouette had read his lips though, ignoring the question.

"Mikita. He was a mole." the silhouette had said behind his ski mask, almost wistfully. "We were going to pass along some information to the Interpol if the operation went on, you Yakuza got really frisky with the Nork arms that came out of that country, but alas, bigger problems have come up."

"We're clear, Koto." One of the track suit wearing men had reported with military etiquette, wrapping up the bag around the ejection port of his rifle and placing it into his backpack. Many of them had done the same.

 _ **"What the fuck are you asking for?!"**_

His pain had finally compiled into rage, into confusion that was stymied out by further pain as the silhouette pressed the suppressor into that wound.

"I know that the Yakuza spent a great deal of time concealing the identities of any Yakuza related personnel during the body counting from the Ginza incident. Some of the crooked cops covered that angle. But one name didn't come up: your right hand man."

"Wha- what?" Again, his lucidness was taken away by further pain in the squelch of further, literal probing.

"Now because your inside people were sloppy, these cover ups were either listed as missing persons altogether, or dead. Now, we're going to sit here a long time until we know which is which, and who is who, and when and what was Mikita doing during the Ginza Incident."

"Oh yeah? What are you? More Bratva?"

As he looked up, between all those figures, their rifles foreign, clunky looking, but identifiable, he didn't need an answer as they looked down on him. The man who had been talking to him had squat however. He had squatted, no features on his face shown bar the ridges on his forehead: exposed between that gap between sunglasses and balaclava.

That answer was one trained to be given; one that donated to the idea of what he was. He wasn't the Russian Mafia, he wasn't just a common criminal or mercenary, he was, summed up in his own words:

" _Worse._ "


	34. 2-13: Yanagida - Blackburn - Kincaid

A/N: Thanks for the time and kind words **_Wispr_** , keep on that review streak.

 ** _3rdXenocide -_** Thanks to you to about the options you've given and the things I can consider going on. In fact you might be spot onto something with the John Snow analogy. I didn't know of him before you mentioned, but you're onto something. Might be worth remembering her interest in chemical weapons.

In General - I won't keep you long with my A/N this chapter. Not my best chapter, but a needed one. Tried to match the tone of the manga more closely in the Arnus Hill events this chapter, but with, you know, my people sprinkled in. Feels clunky admittedly. Oh well, write tired, edit refreshed.

Go give Riptides hugs and kisses and Faust his well due regards and respect, along with his story as well. Their creations are rather prominently featured here, as per our pact.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-13**_

 _ **Posted on 7/26/26**_

* * *

They stopped shortly before the morning came, before the sun rose and replaced the blue moon. Still they were in Italica's holdings, but just barely. That had meant more plains. The beautiful pink of the Special Region's morning had painted them all with mist and a general, faded light. A particularly calming aesthetic that many in the Special Task force had felt in their bones.

Earth had not been faring well to the common, observable citizen. From the cracked earth of California to the wrecked dunes of Dubai, Mother Earth was claiming what was hers again, very slowly, very violently. One natural disaster to another stripping the world of beauties one by one.

America's heartland had been ravaged by dust storms again, the West stricken by drought. South America was being picked clean of its rain forests as the Banana Republics and the industrialization of the continent continued forever forward.

In Europe the Mediterranean states were facing increased flooding along its coast settlements to the hamper of many of the refugee cities that had propped up along said coastlines.

Africa's Sahara Desert had expanded, leading to further migrant and resource disasters throughout the area on top of the extremist movements there. The Race to Africa had ended sourly for all parties as war lords of the continent claimed the investments of many a resource company and business that invested into the continent.

The Arabian Peninsula had all but been lost underneath the sandstorms, the holy cities of the Islamic faiths disappeared from the maps, Mecca buried with the hope of Peace in the Middle East.

For Japan and America to find this new land, this new world, like the explorers of history, it was no wonder why China had been pressing down hard on Japan to allow private and state ventures into the Gate by the international community.

China, of all nations in Asia, needed it. An exploded population, economy, and no resources to maintain as such, had made China a very volatile nation. As was the reason why Emerson and the 75th Ranger Regiment was in Japan in the first place, just in case.

The Gate, Falmart, was not an idea of conquest and control for China. Not that far into their development and history. It was the key to the survival of the state. To feed itself, to sustain itself, to _**live**_.

The almost desperate speakings of Chinese diplomats and politicians regarding the Gate and Japan had grown frantic, and that franticness had spilled over to an issue that distracted the world from the Gate, just for a second:

It was inevitable, the build up, the hostilities, the excuses to do so: Vietnam and China were going head first into a conflict yet again.

The 7th MEU was slated to have been on station to evacuate Americans from Vietnam should that war have come, six months ago, but times had changed and instead the legendary USS Enterprise, CVN-80, had been on station now.

Lumaban's had been twitching in her sleep, her fists clenched, her teeth and mouth vibrating as if she was saying something.

"Yo, sarge."

She woke up as men of readiness always do.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 63**_

 _ **Falmart – Warlord 1-3's Unit - ?**_

* * *

Her teeth slammed shut with a resounding click, her right fist raising up once from her side only to come back down in a snap against the Humvee door, her breathing ragged for the first few seconds of her awakening, looking around in the Humvee.

She didn't need to explain herself to her men again. She'd already done so once, the first time around. Just for a few seconds, occasionally, usually at the beginning of every day, she woke up and she was once again in Iran: mortars raining on her, Kalashnikov fire above, her skull rattling ceaselessly.

And, rarer, fortunately, had been the visage of blue: of a woman and her children…

She had sucked in a troubling amount of air all at once, shocking herself to full coherence, strands of her ebony hair sticking to her face.

Some of her men didn't need the explanation though. The 7th MEU had been built from the remains of Marine units that survived Iran and North Korea. The youngest of the Marine units had the oldest veterans it turned out.

"You good?" Lumaban had been riding shotgun, answering to Poindexter.

Lumaban had wiped her face dry with her Mechanix gloves, silent, but nodding as she had slowly unlocked the door to the Humvee and walked out, rifle clenched at her side. "Yeah," she started. "I'm good. What's the skinny?"

Poindexter had tilted his head over to Kingdom Come, the crusaders that they were all assembled by Kingdom Come's mineshield and the front slope as Bannon and Itami marked up a map, Wilbur and the rest taking account for what exactly they had brought along with them on this hunt. The Ranger team lead had made her Stetson reappear, and it was on her head as her helmet hung by a clip on her belt.

"Alright, keep to the Humvee and set up watch."

"Watch for what?" the young rifleman had asked in some sarcastic wit.

"Anything. Make breakfast if you want. Just don't intermingle with the Rangers or the refugees yet… I got shit to sort out." She was an NCO, the closest thing that the Marines there had to an officer there. She hadn't the pedigree but the experience, as young as she was: a draftee looked down upon by the other Marines for _being_ a draftee.

"Mornin' Perla." Wilbur had waved at the woman whose fireteam had kept his tank safe from the overzealous locals for the last few weeks, she walking over. They'd become friends since that time.

She waved back as he approached him first, sitting on the turret in a tank top, shaving cream lousy on his face, half gone, half still there. She twisted around at those who were awake. "The refugees still sleeping?"

"Ye'." Wilbur's utility knife had gone to work at the rest of the cream, his smartphone serving as a mirror, propped up against tank commander's viewport.

The two other figures out of the tank had been totally engrossed, not even noticing the Marine.

Itami and Bannon had been speaking Japanese as they kept using their fingers to drag supposed paths across the map, trying to find a tangible way to get to Schwarz. Yao had crossed a river on her way here and that had caused a headache. Bannon had been engrossed in her planning with Itami, and by corollary Itami had been sucked in, leaving Lumaban to slyly motion him to the other side of the tank as he shaved.

Conversation meant for privacy.

"Sleep well?" Wilbur asked, Lumaban aired her hair as she took off her boonie cap, the ebony strands very, very long, considering who she was and where they were. She enjoyed the lax in grooming standards.

"For about two hours yeah… you?" she admitted.

Wilbur had wearily yawned as he glided the blade across his cheek. "I'll tell you when it happens… now what up?"

She was to the point when it came to mission critical information. "Wanted to ask you some things about our company…"

"Rangers or Itami?" Wilbur didn't mind being asked.

Lumaban had leaned over and looked at the back of the Ranger team lead's head before ducking back behind the tank. "What's the deal with Bannon? One eye? Still in service? What you think of her?" Lumaban had probed Wilbur in a way not unlike her questionings of Afghani villagers years ago.

Wilbur had taken another glance at the woman as he looked over the turret. He wasn't a fan of her haircut, that messy, barely contained by a ponytail-otherwise-it-would-be-a-pixie-cut piece of work, but her face, how she expressed herself, she seemed groomed: refined.

Knowing her upbringings, it didn't surprise him.

"She got shrapnel in the eye during Italica. Field hospital patched it up but it ain't exactly spiffy, so as she's waiting for one to be cloned on the otherside she's still here." he had finished up his rough shave with a wipe of his rather soft hands. "Staff Sergeant Bannon… she's scary to be honest. Just by standing next to her I feel like she's giving me some nasty side eye. That is if I'm on her right side of course."

Lumaban rolled her eyes. "Come on Alton, I need more than that."

Wilbur had rolled his eyes as he rocked his head about some. "She's got a nasty chip on her shoulder and is willing to do stuff just to see it through. I got a feeling she's been playing a dirty game and the Army told her to stick with it."

Lumaban had made a circular motion with her index finger at her temple, an eyebrow raised.

Wilbur shook his head. "Nah. I mean-" he threw his arms up in the air. "They're all insane I bet, but her, I seen how she take care of Chuka and Lelei; makes me want to go call up Mum."

"Thought you and Mom don't talk at all anymore."

"Eh, well, we're all guilty of something or another, aren't we?" He had put away his knife, some shaving creaming still withstanding. Perla had unwrapped her Keffiyeh from her neck in a toss to the man, he giving his thanks as he had gotten his face actually clean.

He had regarded the faded fabric, it having gone from its white to grey in the years since it had been woven. Still the color was not indicative of its state, for the feel of it had been as pristine as ever, unbroken in its structure.

"You take good care of this thing, don't you?" he looked down at the woman as she had given a small smile. Her first of the day.

"It's the least I could do."

Itami had raised his eyebrow at the other end of the tank. His English wasn't _**that**_ bad and his hearing had still been intact. Same went for Bannon. Tankers and Marines weren't the best at being discrete anyway.

"I don't think you're scary Bannon." he had been, for a moment, joking with her.

He was lying to an extent (any woman with one eye and a voice like hell's would've been scary he reasoned), but to Bannon that was a compliment, looking up at Itami with as warm a smile she could put together after a sleepless night and, at that moment, with both her eyes shown.

And just for a second Itami had seen what Doc had seen every day: a milky circlet of what was very much an eye, the shapes of a cornea and iris barely differentiating themselves from the background by being a darker shade of white. The scar of the piece of stone that made her eye like this had been seen on her eyelid when she blinked.

"What do you think I am then?" A question with a smile and the lieutenant saw what Masterson played counter to in Hitman. Emerson: the steady anchor under most pretenses, while Masterson was the frank sanity that got men and women through the absurd.

Bannon was the critical thinking, the disbelief in the world's state.

Itami shook his head as Bannon's face was imprinted into his mind: if it was just an image alone, it would've been a nice image bar her eye, but circumstances were circumstances and that image carried weight.

An old answer, a repeated one. "Right."

"Damn right."

* * *

Ever gradually those that had dazed off in the night and woken up, coming before the tank, now on their own in that world.

Nutt, Annel, Ortiz, and Poindexter had been out cold by the time the morning light came. Poindexter had been comfortable enough falling asleep on the wheel of the Marine Humvee. Annel, Ortiz, and Nutt had all promptly slumped into their preferred sleeping forms at Ramirez's feet as the man had no trouble staying awake.

The three other drivers that had remained awake were still up and at it, if only to plan their path forward now and then pass out afterwards.

Dixie had his legs leaning out of the hatch as it was open, airing out after a night tucked in. He was a smaller man, glasses on his face and a regulation haircut barely kept in regulation, and right now he was about to relegate himself to sleep, if only after Bannon had approached him with a question.

"What's the operational range of Kingdom Come?" No introduction, and for Dixie that was fine.

Dixie had looked into his tank once, as if gaining the answer by its sight, before turning his head back to Bannon. "We left with a full tank, and these A1s went through a little shop work before their deployment here, so… I 'unno, three hundred or so miles."

"That's a one and a half way trip." Itami had glanced at the map again as he overheard. "Granted Schwarz is on our side of the Tybe Mountain range."

Dixie had taken off his glasses to only rub his eyes. "Look, she'll get you there, but we gotta be strategic on how we keep her running or else we might run out of fuel mid-fight." his fist had come down on the lid of his hatch, motioning at the mineshield in front. "It don't fucking help that we got that piece of shit up there."

The idea of mines being in the Empire's arsenal was a fanciful thought, and the only thing the mineshield was good for was running over Romans.

"Our Humvees got the same range, just about." Bannon followed up, the same for the bikes and ATVs.

"Think you can keep up then?" Dixie had sneered in the usual Marine attitude. However he wasn't talking to another Marine however. He was talking to someone already too far gone from the duties he had supposedly shared with her.

Pride. Bannon didn't hold much pride in herself, in much of anything that she was, however with a certain cowboy in her life again there was some budding flicker of confidence in herself that she felt again. Something she would, without regret, partially hold him responsible for.

Of the little things that she had began to rebuild in her heart and psyche for herself, for a life where she wasn't just a soldier, the pride she had in her capabilities was one of them.

She had put herself on the front of the tank, toward the hatch, leaning with crossed arms at the very cusp of driver's position.

Dixie had thought she was going to answer, the man tipping his boonie cap up to listen for whatever edgy answer that the special forces often gave in movies and stories in response to questions like that.

Bannon hadn't been one of those people however. She knew better; been through her share.

So all she did was look at the man with her eye and eyepatch, her womanly face marked by a light sheen of oil, sweat, and whatever the world had kicked into her face.

Not a word was spoken, but a message was conveyed as she smiled, tapped her palm against the metal once, made something of a cute chirp in her ground out throat, and walked off back to the group.

* * *

Bannon had returned to Itami with a yawn, it sounding like a horrid wail of sorts given her condition, having walked to several of those that had awoken.

It had gotten their attention nonetheless. Harris and Loke had been autonomous enough to point out something of a perimeter for the rest of the awake Rangers and Marines to fill in, Ramirez enacting a watch over the plains, just for formalities sake.

It made those that sleep through the night get the blood going again seeing a Humvee wasn't kind to the glutes.

The two before her had been polar opposites in who they were. Pointman versus autogunner, a former quarterback versus a track and field jockey: a six foot four wide shouldered white Pennsylvania to a five foot six lean Pakistani.

Loke's ponytail and Harris's messy cut had paired well with their morning faces.

"You two look happy." Bannon's cynics had been slightly disappointed, given who was due for some sleep soon: herself.

Harris had grumbled as he held his M60 along his leg. "Yeah well, Donald fucking sucks at driving and whoever's driving the Abrams doesn't know that they're we were riding their asses."

Itami and Wilbur had been in that circle, the rest of the awake twiddling their thumbs as they took in the surroundings.

"Ah forgive Dixie, he's a bit excitable as a driver. He hasn't been driving that thing for a month or so now, you must understand, holed up in our defensive positions." Wilbur rattled off before tapping Itami on his shoulder. "Sides', it's this fine gentleman we were following anyway."

Itami ran his hand along his chin, he himself beyond tired. "I was just driving straight in this direction the entire night. Can't be that hard to just put the pedal down and nod off."

"Hey, I'm not Noelle, I don't got autopilot in my machine."

Loke had breathed out in some exacerbation as he heard Itami and Wilbur talk. To hear the start of bickering this early, both in the morning and in this trip of theirs, it had made her usually amiable self irritated. "I can tell it's going to be a long _fucking_ week."

She didn't swear often, but when she did her comrades were receptive of it. Harris' large hand had patted her back sympathetically.

"Chin up hun'." Bannon had rubbed the back of her neck, only after feeling her Enfield was still slung behind her. " _We ain't dead yet._ "

Across the group, Wilbur observed, only the Rangers had still held their weapons at the ready. Even the Marines had set them aside or kept them hanging on their slings. Without thinking he had done the same, the rifle back in his Humvee with the girls.

"Harris, Loke?" Itami had spoke, the officer in him coming out as the two soldiers gave regards. "Can you give us a run down on the ammo?"

The two straightened their forms.

"For five fifty six, most of us got around two hundred on us, five or six mags more or less each." Loke rattled off, shaking her own kit. "Two pistol mags each for those of us with forty-fives. Nutt's got around fifty forty mike mikes on him or in the Humvee, along with two Carl Gs, twentyish HE rounds for them. Assorted M72s and an M32 too."

"AA12s are also stored, two or three stick mags for a gun, one drum each; five guns total." Harris had patted his M60 before continuing. "I've got a thousand rounds in my bag, and Ortiz has the 240 Bravo with another thousand." Across the big man's chest however had been the AK-12 that he had ascertained from Hakone, Loke having her own AK in 5.56 also by her side. Annel had taken the KP-31 SMG, she cuddling with it in her slumber.

"I'm gonna have to borrow a few rounds from you guys for the Enfield, just in case." Bannon spoke for her own captured rifle.

"Roger. Ramirez also has his MCR and a 590, but he's carrying his own load." Harris's M60 had been an odd one, the man opening the cover of it to seat rounds properly before slamming it closed. It was an E6 variant at least, a much lightened version of the legendary weapon, but he could've carried the original OG monster of a machine gun. He had the strength. On the inside cover of that M60 however had been a photo.

It had been his son. The man was a father. Perhaps not the best one, nor the best husband, but he had a son, something not many people could claim in Hitman. For some of Hitman that was the source of ire that was directed at Harris: he had a family, something many of them craved, Bannon included, and yet he acted like they didn't exist.

"We good for grenades?" Bannon pressed on, ignoring the picture of the baby boy that flashed for but a second.

Loke pointed to one of her own. "Two or such each. M67s"

"Lumaban?" Bannon turned to the Marine fireteam leader as she walked, having joined in the middle of the inventory listing, she listening diligently.

"Standard carry. 210 rounds each for our M27s and M4s on our forms. Chainsaw'd 249s too, shit load of five fifty six in our car."

"Itami?"

"C4, mostly. I got five mags for my battle rifle, three mags for that sniper rifle. Three extra recoilless launchers too with the ammo." As a special forces man himself (in theory) he had the training to use all of what the Rangers had.

Harris had rolled his head in one direction as he looked at Itami. "Shit, you actually brought that Barret?"

"I thought it would be effective."

"Dude, volume of fire, or high explosive. Ain't no one got anytime to be precise against Red." he patted his M60 again.

Itami had crossed his arms over his American armor, his JSDF fatigues under it. "Well, I guess we'll just wait and see."

"Food?" Lumaban scratched the back of her head, looking around at the group. It was quite a sizable hunting party, nothing to say about the tank. Bannon scrunched her nose as she realized the coming predicament, Lumaban realizing what she really did have on her. "For all of us? Not enough. Two MREs for each of us."

Itami had thumbed back to his Humvee. "I got enough food for me and the girls for a week, but not for more. I mean, I can give up my meals if needed, not the first time I can go hungry for a few days; was in my training, but for the rest of the men I worry."

Bannon had rubbed her chin, her left eye flaring up, beating back her urge to itch. " _Yeah_ , for each of my people, three or four days' worth, our hydration packs are full. But we're trained to subsist regardless."

"Yo, I 'unno if I get a say," Chains had popped out of the tank from Wilbur's hatch, overhearing the conversation. "I but I don't wanna die hungry."

Wilbur turned back to the tank. "Well don't your pretty tush' about it, we ain't gonna die."

"Well shit Wilbur, I don't wanna be hungry then. Gotta maintain my beautiful bootay somehow."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it… what's your name?" Bannon had asked, all she got was a fist and a wrist displayed to her as Chains sunk down. Wilbur had answered for her.

"Chains. Call him _**Chains**_. Us tankers like to be romantic and give each other fancy nicknames."

Perla had nodded, affirming, if not somewhat annoyed. " _ **English,**_ " she pointed at Wilbur "because, well, you know. Driver's name is _**Dixie**_ , because he's a whiskey tango, gunner is Chains because he's got the ink, and the loader is _**Schmack**_ because he thinks he's a silent masturbator."

"I am, you _prude bitch_." Schmack had yelled out from inside Kingdom Come, Perla somewhat laughing it off.

"Aren't you cold stone operators supposed to have cool operator codenames too?" Poindexter had pointed out, leaning on Kingdom Come as Bannon played that off with a shake of her head.

"We're not that try hard, Marine, go speak to Blackburn's SEALs if you want that…. or well…" she made motions with her visible eye to Itami, the man clenching his jaw in some annoyance.

"Well you Rangers were trained by a Delta, weren't you?" Loke's eye had twitched as she snapped up to look at Wilbur, Harris unknowing what had clicked in Loke and, as he looked over to the team lead, Bannon.

Bannon's voice had ground itself into Hell again as she looked up at Wilbur. She had forgotten that he had held that information, the stark secret that many new Rangers shared. Not all however, as Harris displayed.

A hand that had been on Kingdom Come's tan skin had dragged like a claw unconsciously. _"_ _ **How do you know that?**_ _"_

Rory had shaken awake in Itami's Humvee between Lelei and Chuka, basked in a cold sweat.

It is said that a teacher does not create, they only nurture and bring out the worth of their pupils: The water which cares for the seeds, the pressure which creates diamonds. So, in that sense, Bannon's teacher, Emerson's teacher, Masterson's teacher, all the same person, had dug in and let out what they were, and here was where they used it.

They always had it within themselves, whether they liked it or not.

The way Bannon's voice had shifted, had snarled like a bull, it had made all those in earshot pause cold. A demanding question, one spoken through the teeth.

Only the most perceptive of the Special Task Force had seen the trigger, the fever, take hold in a few of the Rangers when allusions to a very particular man were brought to bear.

Itami furrowed his brow as Bannon looked right up at Wilbur. He knew the look. It was the one Emerson wore in the throne room, the one he confronted Yanagida with. "Is there something wrong, staff sergeant?"

Bannon's gaze softened as she, almost comically, shook her head before tightening her lips, reeling back. Just for a second she had dipped her feet in the old water.

The Japanese lieutenant had a part of his mind reel itself back in, just to remember who he was dealing with, who she was. There was something similar to a trigger word that existed between the Rangers, the ones trained after Korea when the need for Rangers and American Special Forces was at an all-time high. He had noticed. Itami had seen the click in the Rangers in battle, the snap, the breaking.

With his RCT3 he had seen their faces in battle in the snapshots he had remembered: their faces were chaotic, always darting, always frantic in their eyes and mouths and how they never found composure.

The Rangers however, behind their masks and goggles and equipment, wore a gaze that was infinitely focused, encompassing, still.

It was that same face that flashed across Bannon's for a second, and she had known it.

"Nothing." she said quietly, turning her gaze away for a second.

"Good." Itami nodded. "But still, we should get some rest. Sleep on the route we decided on. When we wake up we'll confer with Yao and then get rolling again."

"Mmm." Bannon had rumbled a yes, not getting the point.

"That means you and me especially, Bannon." Itami had been stern, crossing his arms.

"I've still got a little left in me to hammer out this route." she wasn't fooling anyone.

Itami had frowned at her. He expected better. "You're a terrible liar when you're tired. That's what Captain Emerson told me."

If Bannon admitted there hadn't been a little blush because of that, then she would've confirmed that observation.

* * *

Doc had risen awake from the Humvee, his first steps out encountering Rory Mercury on her knees in her typical morning prayer. He had let her have her peace, her ritual, as he stood idly by, meekly contemplating if he should've given his morning prayer too.

Once, in a hospital long ago with a surgery still heavy on his chest, he had prayed on Sundays to get through it. He saw merit in it.

So the silent murmurs of tradition and scripture had fallen off of Rory's lips as she prayed to the morning light, the wind slightly caressing them all as if to chill them awake with dew and crispness.

"Good morning, Doc."

"Morning, Rory." He slung his rifle behind his back as he walked up to her still kneeling form. The two had a casualness that could only exist between those that were able to hold lives so methodically like they did. A doctor and an apostle, life takers and life givers by trade.

The Marines who were assigned to watch over her had always kept their distance. AA-12s in hand, the stories regarding her abilities were not lost on them. She was a scary woman, with or without her halberd.

Doc couldn't really much give a fuck about her status as an Apostle. He respected her and her alone. "Not one of the most pleasant sleeping experiences I've had."

Doc had hummed in agreement. His ass felt like it was constantly vibrating from how long he had sat in that Humvee during the night.

"I can imagine. Your bones aren't the most dense things, at your age."

Rory had turned around at Doc's dry observation, almost condescending in nature. "Do you need something, Doctor?"

Doc in his squat, that and in his general grumpy disposition, had opened and closed his hand in some stress as he asked Rory directly. "You clean?"

"What?"

The bite, the so called ritual by Lelei, that was what Doc had been referring to, indiscreetly.

"Illness, something you know that could be transferred from blood or other fluid. You bit Itami and sucked on Staff Sergeant Bannon a bit, I just want to know they aren't going to be sick, and if they are I just want to have as much information as I can to do something."

Doc had felt only a pat in return from Rory as she stood up and now looked down on him. "Fufu. You remind me a nice wizard I met three hundred years ago. He treated me just like any other of his patients."

Doc stood up, shrugging. "Good doctor doesn't discriminate unless it's a triage… question remains though, Rory."

"Nothing you need to worry about, Doctor." Doc twinged his nose, rubbing his bald head. He didn't believe it. "If anything, I've ensured Itami's survival in that bite."

"Leaving your mark?"

"In a way, yes."

Doc crossed his arms as they both looked at the coming sunrise and the new day. "Magic? Or something or another?"

"A blessing."

"How literal, Rory?"

"Why so curious, Doctor?"

Doc had scrunched his face as he went for his notepad. "Just for the reports I'll be filing after this, no doubt. You know, paperwork."

"Oh I just let Myuute handle my paper work." she had chuckled in her pompous way.

Doc had been unwavering. "Ah, well, I have to throw myself with Captain Kay's lot. Paperwork is therapeutic to me."

Rory had smiled, closing her eyes and putting her finger tips at both ends of that smile. "Trust me, Doctor, if something would harm Itami, I would tell you."

The bald man shook his head with a tired breath, the nip of the morning making his frustration visible for just a second. "Well, you haven't lied to me yet."

All the Apostle could do was smile.

Doc leaned down to pick up the halberd, but it was a fruitless effort. It took three or four Rangers to pick it up off of the Japanese security agent in Ginza.

Just like Excalibur or Mjolnir the halberd stayed its place until Rory grasped it again. He had breathed out a labored breath in his attempt. "That thing have a name?"

If Doc had hair it would've been blown as Rory fanned it impossibly fast, its bottom tip finding the dirt as it stood upright.

"This one? It has a name, yes." she had looked up at it in pride, its ebony black the darkest anyone on that planet had ever known. "But it's a name lost to time, for even I have forgotten it."

"Well, it's served you well, hasn't it?" he saw the revolver on her hip. It was _exactly_ how Masterson carried his own revolvers: a crossdraw.

She smiled again, red eyes burning their ruby like sheen, Doc forever noticing the white line that crossed across the bottom half like a sliver. For what reason, he couldn't know, but all humans in that world had that particular detail in their eye. "Better than most."

* * *

The problem with the route that Yao had traced on her own personal map was that it was a map followed by a single woman, unburdened by the vehicles of modern sort and the equipment of the party that was now with her.

So that had meant that, distinctly, the forays over a river, waterways, and swamps was a no-go for the most part. That wasn't until they walked into the territory of the Elbe Fiefdom though. The Roma River, the largest obstacle, had been the natural border between the Italica holdings and the Elbe Fiefdom.

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle in his F-18 had occasionally passed over it on patrol, but not much on the ground intel was had by any of the Special Task Force's ground elements.

The word of mouth from traders and Lelei was deemed secondary in nature. The only eyes and ears that command would accept were their own.

"Day, day and a half of travel to get to the river?" Bannon had continued on with Itami back on the hood of Kingdom Come, the first of the MREs being broken open to be served on the Humvees. "Just so we can get there and drop off all the vehicles? Swim across?" she questioned what she was saying, as if she needed to hear it for herself.

"Only way is to go back across Arnus to where the river forms and circle around."

"And that's no go."

"But if we keep going we'll hit that river and, even if we do cross, we'll have to probably leave the vehicles and most of the gear behind."

"Respectfully lieutenant, you remembered what kind of damage we did with only two launchers. That's not much."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Bannon, there's no use worrying about it." That was the type of Itami Bannon had known ever since Ginza.

"You act like things will sort out on their own." Bannon had ground out, annoyed.

"Plans always fall apart upon enemy contact, isn't that how it goes?"

"And there always has to be an ant that _actually_ works as opposed to one that is completely capable of doing that work but instead shirks."

The bite, the snarl, the vocalized sound of aggravation toward him was a sound Itami had been used to from Bannon.

Like so many times before Doc had been there to defuse before Bannon lost it.

"I say that's a mighty fine path. Of course I don't plan missions, I just deal with what happens when things go wrong." Doc had put a hand on both of their shoulders as he leaned in between both of them, looking at the path they were going on in noted false enthusiasm.

Bannon had known the routine as she had faced Doc and followed the flashlight he held up. Routine was kept her straight, after all.

"It feels numb, Doc." she muttered, uncertainty evident in even _her_ voice.

"Numb numb, or cold numb?"

"Stinging numb." Doc had kept a straight face as he heard it, clicking off the flashlight and popping open his notepad: already filled with the day to day observations of Bannon's eye. Instead of writing anything though he had taken the pencil from it, his other hand holding open her eye.

"Hold it open with me." he had flipped the pencil around to its eraser, unused, Doc hadn't been one to make mistakes. His hands were hands of minute calculations and moves, so, with the delicacy of a surgeon, he had poked Bannon's eye with the back of his pencil and felt the force only he could. "Low pressure." he said as he quickly pulled the pencil back and into its proper usage.

Bannon had breathed out a curse as she put her eyepatch back on, Itami unknowing of what that meant.

"Is there a problem Doc?"

Doc had tapped his pencil against her forehead again as he had sucked himself back in, keeping frank about the grisly fact.

"A flat tire, the reason why balloons eventually fall to the ground…. deflation." he said simply. "Her eye is low on pressure, might collapse in on itself if it keeps up this rate of degeneration."

"So the fix didn't work?" Itami had asked of the patch job the Arnus hospital did on her eye.

"It was always a fifty-fifty shot." Doc had walked off, shaking his head, another item on his plate to worry about.

"I only wish Kurokawa was like that. I've never seen Doc brood."

"Get some rest, Youji… can I call you Youji, Yoji, whatever it is?"

Itami shrugged. "If Kay does, you and Masterson can."

"Haven't exactly been kind to you, hun'."

" _ **I know**_ , but only because you care about them." he thumbed back to his Humvee admittedly, the tiredness on his face about to take over, he following his finger to them. "Get some rest, Sergeant Bannon."

He had left her with a blatantly imperfect route forward, but there had been no other option.

"You look liked you were about to kill him, Sergeant Bannon." a voice had replaced Itami's behind her as he walked away. An American voice, a nice, wholesome accent attached to a Filipino-American.

An unkind flash had crossed her mind as she turned around and saw Lumaban approach her kindly. A voice hides many things, that is what her father taught her: _Even a kafir can talk like a English man with enough grooming._

What did her's hide? Bannon had thought, knowingly unfairly.

Old habits die hard. "He's used to it." she responded tiredly, gathering up her map with the supposed route, about to take Itami's advice for some shut eye in the cool morning. Not before she had played the same game Perla had played with Wilbur however.

"Is something wrong, sergeant?" Lumaban asked, expressly interested in her.

She shook her head. "So, Sergeant Lumaban," Bannon leaned on the hood of Kingdom Come. "What're your credentials? I think I deserve to know who's brave enough to come with us on Itami's waifu adventure."

Bannon had looked her up and down, Perla's legs going cold as the one eye'd woman with hell in her throat read into her. On the surface, at the very thin line that was held between the armed forces of America, there was that rivalry that existed between the branches: in this case, the Marines and the Army. However there was something more here.

The Marines in the Special Region would jeer at the Rangers for just being so uptight and so good at their job, like any self-respecting cool kid would tease a top percentile nerd, but it all fell away when they faced them in the flesh. The Rangers that had been called Hitman had a certain quality to them that alienated them from the rest of the 7th MEU. It wasn't the fascination or the gagging thought of Marines being up stood by special forces however.

It was the cold aura of killers of that made the Marines wary of the Rangers. These people were _terrible_ to their core for what they had done; whatever they had done: that is what the Marines thought of the Rangers after all this time.

The boogeymen of the Special Task Force had been a title that they developed and cut both ways with.

Like a wolf, staring its meal down; that is what Perla felt as she remembered who she was speaking with.

"I was drafted in '22 to the 22nd MEU in the build up to Operation Open Wind, spent my time as an aide to the CO and XO on the front, as well as forward observer for artillery and… other assets available."

Bannon ignored the fact she was drafted. It didn't matter, for she was still here in the service. "Other assets?"

"The Killsats." The orbital kinetic weapon stations. "22nd was one of the most forward units during Open Wind, and thus we were given priority targeting for kinetic bombardments. Me and a few other folks were given training to use the equipment after some shelling took out our designated observers."

Bannon nodded thoughtfully, considering her own training. Rangers in the new age were taught to immediately work in concert with such munitions for the one two punch on heavily fortified positions which required the God Rods. "Ah, right, I heard we fired like, thirty something times during Iran. How many times were you on the trigger?" Perla had been visibly uncomfortable, rubbing her shoulder and looking out at the distance. Bannon had backed off with raised hands, mouthing sorry, however she got her answer: several tally marks had been scratched on her specialized binoculars, mounted on her hip.

The Filipino started again. "Then afterwards I was cycled through Afghanistan multiple times: Helmand, mostly around Sangin. Kandahar, and one rotation in New Kabul… how about you?"

Bannon smiled at herself as she saw a stark irony of it. "This is my first true deployment, Sergeant Lumaban."

" _What?_ " It was always assumed by the Marines that the Rangers were all veterans of Korea or the Middle East here. It surprised Lumaban that this wasn't so. "I thought you Rangers been to war before."

Bannon shook her head.

"Well, my Sergeant Ramirez here fought in Iran-" she stopped herself as she looked over at Ramirez, lazily waiting on his bike to move out. He had told her a story once about a woman, a war, and a wronged killing. It was a second of reflection. If Ramirez hadn't revealed himself and what he knew of Lumaban to her directly, Bannon wouldn't say anything as she stopped herself. "Yeah, only one of us. How about your Marines?"

"All of them at least one go around through either Korea, Afghan, or Iran; one in Iraq." her Marines kept to themselves by their Humvee, blowing smoke at the morning air while jamming on some smooth hip hop beat.

Bannon had known that she wasn't a people person, or, in some sense, alienating. She hadn't been unkind however. She had grown up proper after all in pampered halls and Christian values.

Slowly, she put out a hand, almost reluctant, trying to put on as best a smile she could. "Look, I ain't the best judge of character, but, well, if we got off on the wrong foot…"

Lumaban had taken the hand and shook it without question, a pure smile coming from her. "Perla. It's nice to meet you."

Bannon's mouth had scrunched as she tried to remember how to not be awkward socially. In battle, in command, she had been as a cool as a cat. In a restaurant or in casual conversation she had been less than stellar. "My name is Lisa. What my parents named me."

As their hands had clasped the gold chain around Perla's wrist had come into Bannon's vision.

It bugged Bannon too much to not ask. "You a Christian woman, Lumaban?"

She had raised the golden bracelet around her right hand readily. "Born again. You?"

Bannon unconsciously felt for a silver necklace to no avail; for some piece of her younger self. "Somedays more than others."

"Some people never pray to God unless they're in a lot of trouble, Sergeant Bannon."

Bannon had hauled her M4 up as she heard what Lumaban said, tightening her eyepatch all the while to try and suppress a hint of itchiness. "Yeah, well, I ain't see him yet." she had started to walk away, but not before leaving Perla with her command. To all indications, she had cared for Chuka as much as anyone there, and Bannon respected that. "I'm sure you and Wilbur can handle things. Wake me up in a few hours."

* * *

 _ **Later**_

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor – The Officer's House**_

* * *

A chorus on the main floor, the bodies of the dead having donated their blood from one god to others.

It was just how these rituals went. It was just how the way this business went as their clothes were also donated. The most skin, as usual, being shown by the bunnies. Purposefully though, with red lines, designs, markings meant to offer themselves to the god of war and destiny.

So they all repeated the same words, the same sacraments, kneeling before candles and fixtures and offerings of a mission they needed blessed.

 ** _O' gods, and apostles that support the earth and the heavens,_**

 ** _burn this ceremonial vessel with the ritual flame._**

 ** _God of War: Emroy_**

 ** _Ruler of Hell: Hardy_**

 ** _God of the Covenants: Deldort_**

 ** _God of Revenge: Palapon_**

 ** _And we call upon the Gods of the world past the Gate:_**

 ** _Protect us from any fear or affection that may lead me astray._**

 ** _Until the one I deem my enemy is slain,_**

 ** _my body shall become a blade,_**

 ** _rusting from the red blood I receive._**

 ** _I swear this upon our immortal souls._**

* * *

 _ **Later, that night**_

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega - Field Hospital**_

* * *

To say that Blackburn was sleepless had been one thing, to say that he wasn't quite happy with the current state of affairs was another thing. Combining both statements meant he had coffee stains on his white collar, a twitch under his right eye, and his black hair unkempt.

He had come back in concert with Hitman and RCT3 after the Capital and, after his debrief and update of the situation, deduced he was there for a correct reason, finally. This was a situation that hadn't been below him.

It didn't help that, in his mind, a certain ass kissing lieutenant of the JSDF seemed to undermine him.

It was Sergeant Wilbur of Warlord 1-3 that coined that nickname for Yanagida shortly after the initial incursion. There wasn't any real merit to that nickname however. Sure, Yanagida had aspirations of higher rank and he had been more active in those efforts to attain such status than most, but he hadn't gone as far as to be Hazama's YesMan.

He was Lieutenant General Hazama's special assistant after all this time. The man who acted as his mouth piece and advised him on certain matters that went beyond battlefields. He was a political man with the dream of Zipang.

Then again most of Japan had the dream of a new Japan for a long time.

Perhaps it was only because of the Special Region that Japan had tolerated America's military just for that much longer. Indeed the process for America's military removal from Japanese territory had been in the talks ever since Korea, the JSDF having proved itself when North Korea came knocking.

There was nothing wrong with Japanese pride exploding after the first veterans came home from Korea. The problem was that Japan had taken a chunk of Korean territory and finally solidified claims to the naval territory that had been disputed by most of Asia in the early 2000s.

To solidify claims was to, aggressively, use the defense force in such a way that looked less defense and more offensive.

Frankly Blackburn didn't give much of a damn until now: when those same arms and equipment meant for Japan and Japan's interest had been shoulder to shoulder with purposefully gimped US equipment. When he tried to rectify this, he was told no.

He knew who exactly had said no as he stormed through the Arnus Hill field hospital that night.

It was quickly filling up with slaves and Imperials that had been medevac'd by the JSDF and Marines, however a wing of the white, four story building had been cordoned off for the Special Task Force only. That had included Noriko and a particularly unlucky Marine who had taken a wooden beam to his back during the earthquake.

He had passed the Marine's room first, but it was no interest to him except for the fellow Marine who had stepped out into the hallway before Blackburn had passed.

The Marine who had stepped out had a sword of local design hung behind his shoulder like a rifle, his rifle instead hanging by a clip from his vest. Glasses, a stache that was beyond regulation, square face, Jasper Kincaid. Corporal and gunner of Warlord 1-2.

He had squared his heels and raised his hand to a snappy salute as he had recognized the Navy lieutenant commander that stopped in front of him.

Blackburn had saluted him down, his hand jingling as his dog tags and chain were flowing through his fingers in a fidgeting motion. "You one of Elton's?"

"Yes sir." he responded, hands behind his back.

"My condolences for Rolling Stone, I know how you tankers are attached to your tanks."

Kincaid rolled his eyes, matted brown hair being covered by a boonie cap. "I only been with her for a few weeks. She ain't that special to me." he dozed off as he looked down the hallway where Blackburn was going. Kincaid was an older man by Marine standards. The middle of his thirties at least. Most of the Warlords had been due to their shared background.

"You worked security at one of Haliburton's sites before they pulled out, right?"

Kincaid had nodded slowly. "I was a Marine before then…one of the final deployments before Obama pulled out. Haliburton was hiring veterans who had been deployed for security. I said why not with the rest of my crew."

"..I forget, were you active duty?"

Kincaid had grimaced, a frown forming. "I was out fully when I got the call from the fucking Pentagon, lieutenant commander. I'm not exactly happy being deployed again, after all this… respectfully."

"Right," Blackburn had nodded in some sympathy. He didn't have a choice when he brought _them_ all here. "Come with me corporal. Can you keep your lips tight?"

"If you want to know I don't speak Japanese, I was never offered the compensation for the proficiency like Pierce's men or the 4th Ranger Battalion that was deployed to Yokota before you guys brought me back."

Blackburn had nodded as he patted Kincaid's shoulder, motioning for him to follow. "Well, just look scary for me."

He would've, but not before pointing at Blackburn's tags.

"What this? Just a nervous tic."

Kincaid nodded understandingly. "Just noticing. One of the bunnies that was brought back recently, she does the same but with some denarii."

Delilah had broken down sobbing one day in front of the hospital as she had seen with her own eyes how many of her people had survived this long. A bunny warrior named Parna especially, one of Bessera's slaves and Akusho prostitutes, had been brought back from the Capital to the relative safety of the Corridor.

In the words of one bunny, enough survivors for a, as the Special Task Force would understand, a platoon of them. It was Blackburn that had been interested in that wording, if not for all the wrong reasons.

The man had understood the value of local assets and forces. In South Korea and Mexico, both on the ground and watching through the screen of a UAV, he didn't underestimate the locals here because he knew what they were capable of.

Especially those with the pedigree of the Bunny Warriors.

Those that were rescued, after all, had pledged their allegiance to those that freed them and those that know battled the Empire. He wasn't the only ones with the same, dangerous thoughts floating in his mind however. A Major underneath General Andrade's command had contacted him about outfitting the locals in a sense that went more than MP work:

 _Walker._

He had sympathized. If not for the fact that this wasn't the first time he had commanded Hitmen; _Sicario_.

The two had rounded the corner to where a special case was held, and out from his room had been a particular Japanese lieutenant.

The special case had been an old "farmer" with nasty amputations that Itami was already well acquainted with. Upon first sight of him Emerson had been quick to inform the Special Task Force regarding who, exactly, that farmer had been. The JSDF had confirmed Kung Duran's identity by sending Bozes and one of her trainees with her to him.

Pina had sought him out for information about the Special Task Force before Italica.

 _"Lieutenant Yanagida!"_ Blackburn had practically yelled down the hall, the man snapping his form up, but slacking upon seeing who had called him.

He knew exactly why he had walked out of that room. The negotiations between the JSDF and the Elbe Fiefdom had just started and ended with Yanagida as the sole speaker. Blackburn didn't mind that however. Not when Yanagida had sent him the bullet points of the JSDF's demands for negotiations. They were in line for as absurd as they were. Nothing that spoke to something disastrous in terms of public outlook.

King Duran needed the help to be put back into power anyway: his sons having risen up and taken control of the Fiefdom. Blackburn knew the play, he was doing the same with Bessera in Akusho… assuming he got back there before the man died from neglect if the current soldiers posted there had not forgotten about him.

Fulfilling his role Kincaid had held his rifle at idle across his chest, as disinterested and cool a face he could put on plastered.

"Is there something wrong, lieutenant commander?"

"This Empire, I have a thousand or so people immigrating here every day, our PXs aren't bringing enough food to serve as grocery stores for the Corridor, two of my retrofitted M1 Abrams are out of action, I'm currently in a different time zone than my girlfriend, I've lost track of dozens of prostitutes in this place-"

Yanagida had known Blackburn was listing as he griped in English, perhaps in a petty motion. "Are you done, sir?"

" _I haven't even begun!_ But you! You're right in front of me and you've been a pain in my ass for too long for this _**not**_ to happen."

"I'm just doing my job, lieutenant commander." Yanagida had said lightly, opposed to Blackburn's fuming.

"Yanagida, I have deployment orders for the replacement of Warlord 1-2 and the Marine Apache variants to supplement our Zulu Cobras. You mind telling me why JSDF Command here has seen it fit to delay the okay on bringing 'em through the Gate?"

Yanagida had put his cap on as he pushed up his glasses. "Unneeded expansion of armament."

Blackburn turned his head in disbelief. "Oh come on Yanagida, it's bad enough you sent home three hundred of our guys over these last few days back to Yokota."

"Because of a suggestion by General Andrade."

"A suggestion that came down to him from the Minister of the Special Region, who also happens to be the Minister of Defense for Japan."

"A suggestion which the 7th MEU was within their right to deny."

"But one we respected because we're allies."

The game of back and forth, it was a familiar game to them both as they stood in the middle of that hall, doctors and staff passing them by as a war of words was held. To Kincaid, it was gibberish, but he just stood there and waited.

He liked to think he was a good soldier, his record said he was, but the last time he poked his nose into trying to do the world better, he found secrets which couldn't be unknown to him now. The secrets of an American War that would be lost on all those who didn't go into them.

If the fighting between Yanagida and Blackburn was a part of that aspect of an American War, the clash of two different kinds of America in essence, he didn't want a part in it.

His life was complicated enough.

But, all in all, he thought that this portion of his life was one he left behind. For the people he knew, for the brother's he had made in the Middle East before it all came crumbling down, he would've gone back no questions asked. That was his duty, to the Corps and all who shared his trials, but not to whatever this was.

Not to a Special Region and the tribulations of princesses and knights and refugees.

As they talked a stretcher had just rolled past them in a hurry, medical staff running along with it. Yanagida and Blackburn had ignored it, but Blackburn had seen it pass before him: the convulsing body of a bunny warrior, her grey coat almost the same as her skin in her state.

The Empire was not kind to the Bunny Slaves that were taken slaves.

"Besides, the original charter for the intervention had a clause where further forces could've been brought in, and you know this." Yanagida continued.

Blackburn had held his dogtags and chain tighter. "We've only expanded by _five hundred_ men, Yanagida. The JSDF deployment here has expanded by _**five**_ thousand. You basically have the entire 1st GSDF Division here from the Eastern Army and then some."

Yanagida had shrugged. "You're free to bring in more as you see fit, lieutenant commander. But I'm sure you know how public perception of deploying American troops to foreign lands dips, and a new president wouldn't appreciate such an opinion during first few hundred days… that's why you want my approval, right? To put the order on me?"

Blackburn's dogtag dug into his palm as he clenched his fist. "We're here _**together**_ , Yanagida."

There was a part of Blackburn that was eternally mad at Yanagida for talking to him, a lieutenant commander, as he did. Though Yanagida had not walked on ceremony in bureaucratic matters.

"Hasn't stopped me from greenlighting operations." Translated to Blackburn's mind, he had meant he didn't need Blackburn's approval for anything. The only way America had ever stopped the JSDF from doing anything was at, not gun point, but with gun _**fire**_. "We're two separate organizations, Lieutenant Commander Blackburn. For only one of us to be burdened with the decision making of the whole would be unfair."

"But we have one agenda: the safety of any of our people in this world."

"Which is why we're complementing our force projection by getting our F-3s in here."

The first 5.5 generation combat aircraft in Japan's fleet, the JSDF response to the F-22. Their first combat experience would more than likely be here, in this Special Region. Blackburn was at a loss for words as the realization that that kind of fighter was going to be deployed here.

But for what? Why? That was, in every sense, overkill, even after the slaughter that even the ancient F-4s and the Type-74s had done with the Empire.

Only one answer had come up, and it was an answer that spoke to an almost pathetic notion: The Special Region could be Japan's playground.

"You going to talk to me about Lieutenant Itami and the Warlord that's currently out of station, Blackburn?" Blackburn cocked his hips as Kincaid recognized the name of his unit being spoken, taking his mind off the equipment for just a second.

 _"English actually did it, huh?"_

Blackburn had ignored the tanker's comment as he kept the dog tag in his fist still for a moment. "I'm not concerned for the livelihood of Lieutenant Itami and his pack."

"Why is that so, Blackburn?"

" _There's nothing to worry about with them._ " As intelligence officers always do, there was always more to be dug into in a statement, and as Blackburn had said his Yanagida was given his answer in a platter. It was left for him to dig it out.

That was that regarding them, and that was something the two officers understood and could find an agreement on.

"Thank you for smoothing out the kinks regarding their… deployment."

Yanagida had raised his cap as he smoothed back his hair. "Of course, lieutenant commander…" he took a pack of smokes from his pocket as another common point was found. "Outside?"

"Yeah." the two having forgotten about Kincaid as he begrudgingly followed them.

* * *

The two officers had been bickering, even out the door, leaving Kincaid alone to walk out and appreciate the nip of the Arnus night, looking at a rather vanilla moon. The moon had been laible to change colors as the lunar cycles went on, but now it had been white, if not giving off some blue glow that emphasized the very fact it was night. He wasn't the only one that could appreciate it as he looked right: Noriko had been sitting on a bench, smoking her head off.

He knew what that was like, waving at her just once, her head barely even tilting his way in acknowledgement.

Word got around fast regarding her: the saved slave from Japan. Her rescue had brought on all that had happened now with the multiple extractions from the designated areas of interest. But she had become the same as Tracey O'Neal now and his family. She was an excuse, the Special Task Force mostly forgetting that she was a person with human struggles.

And, with the hundreds and hundreds that died in Ginza, it was no surprise that even she was affected by it, after all she'd been through.

She was a missing person before the Ginza Incident, missing by choice, and then by force as the Imperial Scouts were able to nab her, days before the Incident. As all families do to their missing children, they went looking for her, and a little bird had told them that she was last seen at Ginza.

As they handed out pamphlets during one of Ginza's busiest annual events, they were not spared as the Empire came.

She, nearly seven months after the incident, had just now learned that her family in its entirety was dead looking for her.

The guilt of death can be placed upon people so easily, in so many ways. The usual, resulting effect of that guilt was often the same regardless: _I don't deserve to live_.

For her to be smoking her head out, it was understandable to say the least.

As Kincaid had relented and looked forward again he hadn't expected to see cloaks suddenly be in the wide open in front of the hospital. He was the only one that noticed as Blackburn and Yanagida continued to go at it.

To be fair he didn't understand what he was looking at, but if he didn't understand it meant he was within his right to get his rifle off of its slack and, as he brought it to his shoulder, flick the safety off.

Maybe, he thought, they were supposed to be here. The MPs wouldn't have let them in if they weren't safe.

He never saw their faces at that range, only the whites of their eyes and their varying faces.

"President Fletcher's opinion rating has no bear-" Blackburn was cut off by Kincaid.

"Hey, desk jockeys, eyes up."

"What? The nuns? Don't worry about them." Blackburn had been quick to dismiss, going for a pack of smokes in his office shirt.

"Hold on there lieutenant commander." Yanagida had raised his hand at Blackburn slightly as he saw what Kincaid saw. "You speak the Lingua Franca?"

Both of them nodded, Blackburn had confirmed as he cleared his throat and changed languages. "Hey! Y'all alright?!"

The cloaked figures didn't respond as Kincaid held his rifle still, scanning with his head across the lot. "Twenty… more coming?"

"Where are the MPs?" Yanagida had unhooked the pistol at his holster.

They held no secrets to their intentions as, in the moonlight, the shine of blades appeared from their covered hands.

 _"Civilians are supposed to be disarmed on base."_ Blackburn had said quickly.

In that pause to gaze out against the cloaked figures their vision had lapsed over Noriko, and by the time they returned to tell her to head back inside another figure had appeared from the dark.

A familiar figure wrapped in a veil of mystery, cloaked in the exoticism that only those that were there when the Eastern Plains were conquered would've known.

They were speaking to each other: Noriko and Delilah, quiet in their murmurings, made only strange by Delilah's tribal attire and the fact she had a kukri at Noriko's throat. Neither had acted as if that blade was there at all.

As the blade was against her throat, Delilah wondering, at request of a rather willing Noriko, how exactly to make it painless. In that turmoil Noriko had seen the same face upon another bunny warrior.

 _ **"You're just like Tyuule."**_ Noriko said softly.

"What?"

"What the fuck is this?!" Kincaid had raised his rifle to his cheek as his optic's sights had landed on the bunny warrior.

As the three soldiers had figured, they were just in the middle of something big, something violent, and something that they couldn't allow happen.

Kincaid had raised his rifle quick in a snap, fast enough to deflect a flying blade inadvertently and the rifle to be thrown off of him with that force. The AR had fallen to the floor as, all at once, the hooded figures all approached them.

He wasn't issued a pistol, oddly enough. Blackburn's diligence in arming the Rangers and Marines didn't go all the way down to the crewmen of the tanks. What he had found instead of his pistol holster however had been the scabbard of his sword.

It had come out fast, the sound of metal being drawn stating one thing: _I'm not going down without a fight._

If there was any mistake in translation Kincaid had provided a more literal vocalization: "Come get me you _ **fucks**_!"

Blackburn had hardly the time to move off center going for the pistol holster on his leg, the .45 monster of a handgun being drawn out as he went through the old motions again.

It been a long time since he had shot somebody, killed, but today was the day he remembered what he was and who he had to become.

At least this time he had the luxury of not seeing their face as he rose his sights and started the gunfire.

Nothing less than .45. That was what the Army had expected of service pistols during America's days of Imperialism to shoot down charging natives in the Philippines, and so the first shots from Blackburn had dropped the figure he had aimed at.

For all his time in a tank Kincaid had hardly been bothered by the shock of gunfire right next to his head. More telling to him had been the first gunshot landing in the chest of the cloaked figure closest to them: their cloak fluttering once, as if a blast of wind going through them, only for the form that it covered to collapse to the ground as if vanishing.

Kincaid had thought that Blackburn had killed a ghost with how ultimately that the form fell to the ground. That thought had been revoked by the time the second form fell dead: a shot to their head sending the cloak back, only to reveal a human with his eyes rolled back into a skull that was missing a quarter of its contents and shell.

Many of the new inhabitants of the Corridor hadn't known the tenacity, the might, the fury of modern firepower. What had been so all encompassing to know of for the Imperials at Italica and the surrounding villages of Arnus had been lost as more and more people came.

It was that joyful ignorance that eventually made possible the growth of the Corridor: expansion and safety without the knowledge why.

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

" _The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with_ _ **the blood of patriots**_ _and tyrants. It is its natural manure."_

 _Thomas Jefferson, third President of the United States, 1787_

* * *

Kincaid with all his bite and might had an arm barred against him as Yanagida and Blackburn pushed forward of him, their arms and hands forward with their pistols up and forward.

In another world, a softer world, perhaps they would've just raised their guns and spoke, yelled, "Stop!"

There was no dramatics here, not when the evidence was enough and the threat was there.

The kick of a handgun in their hands had reverted them back to what they were, at their very core, and as Delilah's gaze had been kicked away from Noriko to the courtyard and those that fell, they realized it was an all too easy form to fall back into.

Like a microcosm of the Special Task Force, the cloaked figures that accompanied Delilah fell like no one had seen before. For the first time ever since D-Day and the immediate period afterwards, gunfire had erupted from Arnus Hill.

"Kincaid! Go get Noriko!" Blackburn had yelled as he opened fire.

The tankers's momentary daze had been kicked out as he heard orders and followed. "Right!" he shifted away and toward Noriko.

With how close her kukri had been to Noriko's neck he didn't spend any time going for his rifle, not when he had a perfectly serviceable weapon in his hand. Shoot first, questions later.

One of those questions would've been why Noriko hadn't cared to move as the blade was at her throat.

It surprised Delilah that a person had come to challenge her, a Marine especially, with a blade, but she had underestimated how fast Kincaid could carry himself as he had held the blade up to swing down like a hammer.

Kincaid's sword had dragged Delilah's blade away in a sparking move, but she had been nimble, nimble enough to take Kincaid by his collar and toss him out into the field, only for her to follow.

Not before she had looked at her target, her gaze polarized between mercy and duty.

Noriko had barely moved as she sat still, witness to something she hoped would end her life.

* * *

Colonel Pierce was a man who had fully appreciated sleep. Sleep was a wondrous diversion from the complexities of real life and war. No artillery shelling from angry Koreans, no political advising from Andrade about the state of affairs back on Earth, no constant worry of one of his Marines coming back stabbed.

Sleep was nice.

Though he always woke up as men of readiness always do, and, given his veterancy and noted appreciation of waking up into less than ideal situations, he rolled off his bed when the gunfire started.

Practice and application at work.

His priorities had been straight enough as the glass of water at his bedside tumbled down and over him in a splash, the contents also including his dentures, he slamming them into his gums as he crawled to the foot of his bed, knocking his 590 shotgun down to the floor and grabbing it.

Before Pierce was an officer of high stripes, he had been a lieutenant there when Afghanistan fell, when Iran was invaded, and when North Korea came. He had been in his fair share of fights and he had fallen back into the old motions as he had sucked in his breath and reached back to his end table, several shotgun shells thrown on the bed with his M45 as he went to the window with his weapon, looking down at the hospital field.

To see two officers holding off encroaching hooded figures with their duty sidearms and another Marine going blade to blade with another had been a clear indicator of who was hostile and who was on the side liable to be shot up.

In the dark of night some of the hooded crowd had held back as the more forward members fought, observing on as the gunfire rung out, unknowing of the sudden threat to their back until the signature cla-clunk of a shotgun rung.

The sound of thunder, and buckshot rained.

* * *

Kincaid had learned some techniques from the Rose Order. He did, he asked one day while having lunch at Delilah's house regarding their training and how they kept themselves ready for duty while they were translating homoerotic comics for their matriarch.

While he hadn't been as graceful as a barely twenty something girl in his strokes and swings with a blade, he personally thought he did well against the evil watermelons he had first taken his name.

When push came to shove however he had fallen back into old habits.

And that push literally was a shove as he had ducked under as a cloaked figure raised their blade up, only to feel Kincaid's shoulder in their gut and the huge force of a tackle bringing him down to the ground, for Kincaid to feel a spine break.

Being thrown out to the field by Delilah's considerable force had surprised him, if only to remind him how much shit he was in. Up to his neck apparently, especially after his form had knocked out a good dozen of them as he flew.

He had rolled off the figure just in time for a retaliation stab to miss him entirely and instead impale his former victim.

The sword was left by the stabber as Kincaid looked up from his back in time to bar his sword up, the metallic clash of another blade hitting it as a cloaked figured pounced on him, only for his face to be ventilated along with one side of his body.

" _ **Move it Marine!**_ " Kincaid had hardly the time to twirl around as he rose, sword out like a petal dance keeping the attackers away. He recognized the voice as Colonel Pierce's, and the boom as a shotgun.

He also recognized what a shotgun did to a living being as it happened all around him, Pierce's covering fire not having degraded with age.

Several of the attackers had snapped their view to where those booms had originated, however that had been their last sight as Kincaid capitalized and slashed across the back of their forms in their distraction.

In the middle of battle, he felt nothing of it: only the slight tug, the hope that that was enough to take an attacker out of action. None had risen up however in Kincaid's slashing spree, and that was tolerable enough.

Those that hadn't been confused about what was happening, about why people were falling as if zapped by the gods themselves, had tried their best to charge toward Noriko and the two officers.

Lead rained however, from both sides, and soon enough those that rushed had fallen face first as the hole in their hearts were literal.

The same story, over and over, from Arnus Hill, to Italica, to the feet of the Emperor: these people fell the same way to gunfire.

Blackburn and Yanagida had been doing a tolerable job dropping cloaks like nothing else, keeping the attention on them as Kincaid found himself in the center of that mass, now standing before the woman of the hour.

His sword had come down in a flurry of figures in his mad slasher routine, what he hadn't expected was a kukri to come back up and block it.

A fierce smirk of a woman in the middle of battle, her legs well-toned, her heritage of being a bunny warrior fully reveal as she hoped and went sideways, her feet finding purchase on Kincaid's stomach and pushing out as all the breath the tanker held was expelled in a groan of pain, he doubling over, only to bite through it and stand fast.

When his vision had returned from being sucked in from the pain he had found his heels digging into the dirt, having been sent back just barely.

"Delilah!" he yelled through his pain. " _ **What the fuck is this?!**_ "

"I don't want to do this, Kincaid! I don't want to make _ **Aurea**_ mourn! After all she's been through!" she yelled back, the face paint on her exemplifying the rage.

Kincaid had blinked, her name, it brought him to Earth and dragged him to Hell.

It was no secret to those in the know that he had been partaking in some extracurricular motions in regards to hearts and minds. In short: he had fallen in love with one of the maids, and one of the maids had fallen in love with him.

 _This wasn't his story though_ , and yet Delilah used it.

"So you'll kill me _ **bitch**_?!" The tanker had found his grip on the sword again, bringing both his hands on it, blood already dripping from it.

"Orders are order, Marine. _Your kind would know_."

She spoke as if she knew the Marines, the Marine before her. It infuriated him beyond comprehension. " _What the fuck_ are you on about?! What the _ **fuck**_ do you know about _**me**_?!"

And seemingly from the night sky another cloaked figure had come down, the hood on that figure giving way to yet another maid, another bunny warrior.

"Deal with him, sister." was the only exchange between the two as she jumped back over Kincaid, toward her target.

No response from Parna as she had readied her two hands, metal, claw like protrusions coming from rings around her knuckles.

And not one other attacker had bothered the two as Delilah jumped out. It was a time honored tradition of the fighting here in Falmart to not disturb knights in battle, especially in such a place, such situation.

In the back of her head Parna had been transported back to a year ago. The man before her was not an American. He was just another Imperial, come to claim what they thought was theirs.

"We've treated you people with respect and kindness! _**What the hell is this shit**_?!" Kincaid had been yelling at the choir.

He had gotten no answer in return as Parna had held her hands out like claws, running toward him as Kincaid had held his sword diagonally across his chest and out.

The two weapons had clashed as Kincaid met her half way, the claws blocking her hands from harm as she literally went fist to blade. Her face was painted red in their tribal designs, Kincaid had noticed. The cruel irony however was that so was his in the specks of crimson. He just didn't know it.

The blade slide in a slice across the metal of her claws, the sound unkind to both her ears.

Blackburn had backpedaled as Parna lashed out, Kincaid's one hand on his sword barely coming close to her as, in her agility, ducked and weaved.

Her metal claws were parried against Kincaid's blade, the spark that happened in the clash unkind. Given the more tactile feel of her claws the blade was in her hand as the energy in the rush was made. Her palms had felt alongside the flat side of the blade as both her hands clamped it, forcing it right and out of Kincaid's grip. His eyes had followed the blade as it was thrown out of his hands, and his head had turned: a big enough target for Parna.

A swipe, a drag, the feeling of hit connecting had made the tanker wince and stumble back.

Pain was never a factor in combat. Not when the adrenaline runs through veins so hot that the beast within men could be felt. Kincaid had bled of the beast he inherited from his tank, from all his days as a Marine.

What he felt was the warm, the absence of feeling along the right side of his face from his ear down to his jaw. Just as Bozes had scarred Emerson forever, this bunny had made her mark on him in such a way.

The sword had been forced onto the ground, clattering into the night.

He didn't care for the scar that she left as he realized what had just been inflicted upon him, his palm that went up to wipe his face coming back soaked red. He would do much worse to her.

"You want hands on _**bitch**_?!" he tightened his knuckles as he yelled out at Parna, the air cracking within his bones as he did, his teeth grinding. "I'll give you hands on!"

Kincaid, just for a second as he charged at the bunny, remembered a dialogue he had with Benitez, his tank's driver. _"Dog, do you believe in the mission here?"_

He asked that question of the Marine, the greenest man of that tank crew.

He answered in his naivety, his innocent answer that spoke to a better man, in a better world.

" _Yeah man I do, when I see how the refugees back at Arnus look at us? With every fiber of my being."_

Parna had looked at Kincaid like he was a mad man, his white teeth bared, his mouth open in a battle cry meant for warfare.

She raised her hand up to break the charge, trying to push the man onto his back and reversing his stance, however she was not allowed the upper hand as Kincaid had jumped into the charge.

If he was going down she was coming with him as Parna found herself off her feet and her back bearing the brunt of an impact forced by a full bodied Marine.

The pain was there, she felt it, the knee jerk instinct reeling through.

Her legs once again found Kincaid's stomach, sending him flying up and down onto a body of an attacker, it being a non-issue if they were alive or dead. On his back Parna had pounced again, claws out, but Kincaid had, in perhaps an instinctual maneuver now, shielded his face as her knuckles met his forearm, the blade not finding home as they had gone down on either side of his head.

His head wasn't lacerated, thus, his forehead and snapped back before swinging forward once into her nose. The impact and all of its squish had made Parna snap up, warmth running from her nose.

The cloak of a dead man was ripped up as Kincaid stood. A weapon like no other against a beast with no nation, it proved its worth as he had rolled it around his right forearm, giving him padding and bulk.

She had swung down on Knicaid in a rush, he accepting the swing as his right arm rose up to meet the slash, only for the blades catch onto the cloth, hook and sinker. In a heavy shift he had forced her right arm down, her body following as his left hand came up in an uppercut, the recoiling one-two hit sending spittle and her blood flying.

The cloth unraveled as Kincaid twisted away, leaving a dazed Parna standing, her heart to bear.

As a gunner of an M1 Abrams, his hands had been responsible for controlling a part of that beast. Those hands were great hands, strong hands, hands that, upon invocation, were liable to take the life of an individual.

That was the right he had by being a tank crewman, and he invoked that right now as, in the slowest two steps he had ever taken, in some surreal state he couldn't understand nor tried to, he balled his red right hand into a fist and struck.

Parna had been beaten back on her heels as she had taken Kincaid's punch center mass. It was a punch she didn't feel in that numbness from his previous uppercut, but her heart skipped a beat and all she could do was stand there as she felt the cold; remembering why the bunny warriors lost to the Empire.

For every thousand men in an Imperial Legion, for every ninety cowards, every nine actual soldiers worthy of their steel, there was a warrior among them.

In the Marine Corps there was nothing _**but**_ warriors combed from the public and made in the crucible of conflict.

" _ **What the fuck is taking my men so long?!**_ " Pierce's words were hollow in Kincaid's ear as, from the corner of his vision, he had seen Yanagida charge Delilah. Another explosive boom from the 590 had been how Pierce dealt with it, unable to put a shot into Parna without putting shot into Kincaid.

It was no matter however.

As a Marine, Kincaid had stank of his musk, stank of his tank, and stank of the men he had been shoulder to shoulder with every day. Air fresheners were often a classic item for care packages sent to troops abroad, and on top of that, Kincaid had been a smoker.

A lighter in hand quick he knew what to do. He knew what to do to cement his place as a man who would not die today, who would do what he needed to.

For the first time out of his tank, Kincaid had breathed fire.

* * *

Sergeant Valentine's M21EBR had smacked itself across the face of one of the hooded figures.

To say Arnus Hill and Camp Omega had a guard detail was a light statement at best. The Marines would always be the ones to hold their arms against the curious few who were not cleared to come into Arnus Hill more strictly, but for every Marine on guard duty there was at least three more JSDF, and that had meant the JSDF's holes in the security perimeter were larger than the Marine jurisdiction in general.

Sergeant Major Freeman had often griped to Major Sevson and Pierce regarding the security situation, especially seeing as the bleed through from the Corridor had communities popping up along the defensive walls of Camp Omega, however the JSDF wouldn't play ball.

" _There's no need to increase the perimeter defense in the light of nothing to be defensive about, sergeant major. The Empire has no offensive capacity here anymore."_

" _It's not the Empire I'm worried about, Lieutenant General Hazama."_

Perhaps the concern would've been addressed tomorrow. The amount of monks from the God of the Harvest that accrued at Arnus Hill at the behest of one of their sacrifices surviving in the case of the Special Task Force was a great number.

They disappeared that night, and their clothing stolen by the perpetrators.

What followed next was infiltration at its finest.

Why? The MARSOC operators wouldn't know. It didn't matter though. They went into battle all the same, even if that had meant they were in their skinnies and knickers only with the bare essentials for war on them.

These attackers, no evident affiliation between them observable, had been more prepared however, whatever that meant. It didn't mean much to the operators as they broke out the barracks to see hooded figures waiting for them.

All in all it was only a distraction, especially seeing as the attacks barred doors leading to the hospital and command building throughout base.

One of the machine gunners of Lyncher had bashed his rifle against the door, it apparently welded shut and the windows being covered by some magical film.

It was the building that led to the courtyard between the hospital and the GHQ building, and needless to say that the operators wanted to be there, right now.

"Look buddy, I've killed men for less, so unless you don't start talking about why you're here, what you're going for, I'll paint the floor with your skull." Valentine had bent down to the hooded figure's level as the banging against steel and framework continued as the Lynchers awaited their man with the explosives to get back from the armory.

"A job is a job, the gold was good!" The distance between Valentine and the man was too far as he heard his voice, his face still covered by the hood.

This man had tried to fight them coming into this building, however he was only one man with a dagger against a dozen with the meanness to disregard such weapons.

There was something else however, in the insanity of dealing with a medieval man in a lobby meant for the twenty first century office buildings, Valentine had recognized the voice.

His rifle fell limp on his sling as he grabbed the man's collar with one hand and pummeled his head with the other, the hood flying back and revealing a known face of bald and snideness.

It was the man that had been harassing Tyuwaru, the harpy that Valentine had saved yesterday. They spent breakfast, lunch, and dinner together afterwards. For what reason, it was a pure one the sniper explained. There was no lie: just a man trying to talk to a young woman out of a certain lifestyle she had known all her life.

He held this man in contempt, and there was every excuse given to do what Tyuwaru didn't want to happen.

" _Don't kill that man, Sir Valentine. I know how men are like, and they shouldn't be blamed for what they think regarding us."_

"You were paid?" Valentine had ignored it all, the impulsions of which made his trigger finger itchy.

"I thought you knew. I thought the Marines were doing this against the JSDF. You Marines use her café so much I thought you were in on it." he spoke, genuinely surprised. "It's why we're surprised you're shooting at us."

Lyncher Actual had been smarter than that as he quit his banging against the door. "No, no sane man in this world would've willingly fought a Marine. She lied to you, that what I reckon."

"Seriously what up with this magic bullshit?!" the operators had tried to no avail to break down the doors and the windows, but some enchantment had kept them still. Either that or Blackburn had invested a lot in the security measures of doors and windows.

"Quit it Mack," Valentine had spat. "You ain't getting through unless you got a few spells up your sleeves."

The man in question had panted as he gave up. "How you know that?"

"Tyuwaru has limited knowledge."

"Ooohhh. So you claimed her as your ow-" another smack from valentine's rifle had hit the man to shut him up.

Lyncher Actual had been darting his vision up and down the halls, trying to see if there had been another way through. "Leave him Valentine, he's not worth the bullet." he spat out fast.

" _So you don't mind if I do put one in him?"_ the rebuttal came fast. Too fast.

"How can you judge me?" The same dare, the same accusation from the man to Valentine, now spread against them all. "Judge my ways and how I make a living here?"

"Trust me, I was an Imperial soldier once, back before the campaign to retake Arnus. What are you people to intrude on our affairs? Kings have fallen in the same way before. It's the natural course of events."

"God you fucking backward people."

The Goths, Carthage, the Vandals, the Druids, all backwards people to Rome, and yet: that was the business of the day. The only way to fight Rome was dirty.

Just another day in the life, in the course of a human history.

"You still acting on the Empire's orders?"

" _Ask Delilah. I'm just following orders."_

One of the operators had tried blowing open a window with gunfire to no avail, only the hardened men not flinching in the close proximity. That silence and reverb afterwards had only emphasized what that man had revealed: "Delilah? The café owner?"

One of the Lynchers had returned with a bundle of C4, the man hurriedly smacking bricks across the frame.

The man had heard the gunfire just beyond those doors, immortalizing the cracks in his mind. "I can hear it now, what those at Italica did. I wonder how many will be dead before this night is over?"

"What it matter to you?"

"Regretting I didn't have that last glorious _**fuck**_ with that feathered girl. Next time maybe?"

For all his brooding over how many he killed during Italica, the fact remained: _he didn't stop shooting._

" _We don't got time for this shi-!_ " Lyncher Actual's protest had been cut short as the floor was painted by an explosion of the cloaked figure's head. It was that organic sound that blasted above the gunshot.

He was red handed, the smoking gun still in those hands, but he had done no wrong in battle.

And so Lyncher Actual looked up in such stark surprise his eyes had been like the deep circlets of a moon, wide, unbelieving that someone actually did pull the trigger.

It was so easy to shoot someone when they were standing, when they had a weapon in their hands and meant to do harm with it.

This however, was something else. A necessity? He wouldn't call i that as Valentine dropped the mag into his dump pouch and put in another one. Cold blood, that's what run through the captain's veins as he realized what had been done.

"Captain? We moving?!" the intensity in Valentine's voice had ushered Lyncher Actual to snap out of it, the door being blown open as the MARSOC team made its way to the epicenter of the gunfire.

* * *

Pierce and Kincaid had been single handedly drawing away the attention of the attackers, if either by killing them or by the fire show which Kincaid had started.

Blackburn had racked the slide back on his monster handgun as he reloaded, the LAM turned on and painting a red dot on Delilah's chest as she had slipt behind her and rose at her target, Noriko still frozen. "Hey! Delilah. Back. _**The Fuck**_. Up!" The JSDF lieutenant had charged as Blackburn uttered his words, having already slapped in another magazine. "Yanagida wait!"

The JSDF lieutenant had blocked Blackburn's shot as the man threw off his beret, the first gunshots from Yanagida hitting the floor in front of Delilah as her eyes steeled and she used her legs to propel her up and forward.

Her jump had nearly hit the ceiling, her arm held back waiting for the downward swing as Yanagida back pedaled, his head whiplashing back as the blade caught his chin, drawing his blood in a line before hitting the floor in a metal impact of stone and blade.

Yanagida had sprang his leg up as Delilah found herself after the swing, crouched on the floor, her feet again propelling her into a backflip back to in front of the stunned Noriko.

Blackburn had moved off-center, his handgun still aimed at Delilah as the red dot appeared on her neck again.

A shot had gone off but didn't hit home as a glass door behind it had shattered, Delilah breaking into a sprint, her body almost hugging the ground like a snake, toward Blackburn.

He couldn't have done anything about the headbutt into his gut that sent him into the floor. Nor could he do anything about the gunshot that was meant for Delilah to blow through the edge of his right forearm, but still it gave Delilah the opening to bounce off of him in a swipe toward Yanagida at waist level.

 _ **"Shit shit shit shi-!"**_ Yanagida had been barely coherent as the kukri had been stabbed into his thigh once and drawn out, Delilah pushing the man as she withdrew her bloody blade, sending his pistol to the ground as Blackburn had crawled on his back to give himself breathing room between him and the monster.

She went for the pistol.

Yanagida, if he survived, would've had to pick up a new duty pistol when Blackburn had shot it out of range, only to have Delilah remember he had been there and quickly distancing himself on his back: his office shirt being rubbed raw.

Blackburn went onto his back as Delilah made that final lunge, pouncing, hands out as if to tear out his throat. The hands had reached out and touched the muzzle of the Mark23.

Blackburn remembered the first time he had gored someone, made people lose limbs: he remembered taking his knife to the throat of a North Korean sentry, pushing way too deep in the act, nearly detaching head from body as his fingers were ruined by flesh and red that were not his own. He remembered seeing the slashed up body of a North Korean he had kicked through a glass window, and he remembered where the crystal had met vein and the whites of his eyes. He remembered the after-effects of a bundle of C4 placed against a makeshift barracks wall in the middle of the night, the great rupture and boom sending pieces of people through the urban smog: inanimate objects that used to belong to living beings.

He would remember this then:

He would remember how the gun bucked in his hand as Delilah's palm had been up against it, the two face to face. The bullet had shot out with such heavy weight the slide racked against his chest as the muzzle flash came, chunks of her hand flying past her head in sinew and bone.

He rolled into her pounce, the sudden indescribable pain and numbness that overtook her making her botch the attack and grind the front of her form into the concrete of the pathway.

The knife had found home however: right into Blackburn's shoulder as he sprang up, screaming in hatred and pain.

He snapped around as he saw the knife in his shoulder move with his shifting. He didn't care, not when the gun was still loaded, not when he saw Delilah crawling away, her fleshy bouquet of bone and blood at the end of her right arm tucked into her stomach as she so desperately tried to run, to hide, to escape the world.

The Mark23 was raised up at her body.

She looked back as Blackburn hobbled toward her, unable to do anything but looking into the eyes of the man who wanted to end her life.

But she knew better after all this time, _there were fates worse than death._

" _ **Fuck you! Fuck you!**_ " Blackburn hadn't been the best shot, but he didn't kill her, not as his mind had melted and he switched into another tongue. " _ **Cao Ni! Cao Ni You inhuman**_ _ **whore**_ _ **!"**_

Blackburn was a good man. He was at first a Navy mechanical engineer, his credentials that of a man with military in the family history and a GPA meant for ivy leagues and the DOW. He served his country though instead of himself, testing the waters of the US Navy, almost becoming a SEAL himself. He was a man who many said saved Seoul, many rallying behind his guerrilla leadership as the capital was held, many decorations and awards to his name. He had a loving girlfriend who was a noted service member herself, and by that virtue he sought to lead by friendship.

Andrew Wei Blackburn, lieutenant commander, USN; current JSOC representative and field commander in the Special Region, was a _**good**_ _**man**_.

The Mark23 had a monstrous firing signature in the concrete echoes of Arnus Hill. Each shot had punctuated every wound he had inflicted against the assailant as she screamed, cringed, every time as she felt herself be broken and made less than whole.

A round had careened into the back of her leg, taking out her left knee cap, the recoil making Blackburn raise his pistol up and put a shot through her right shoulder, the exit wound seeming to paint the concrete below her.

Another shot, right through the tip of her ear, another into the stump of her right hand, digging into her back as Blackburn screamed with her as if a comrade in arms, collapsing to his knees as the MPs and the GSDF first responders finally got to them, the gun having clicked back, empty, mag falling to the blood stained ground as his hand curled like a claw and the gun dropped from it.

So too when the handgun fell had Blackburn collapsed, as did the rest of the cloaked figures either by bullet or by force as the MPs from both the JSDF and the Marines barged into the courtyard after a giant boom.

It wasn't needed perhaps when half of those still standing were on fire, or charred at the very least, the remaining bunny warrior having gotten on her knees as she witnessed yet another country, another Empire, bring her comrades down.

Noriko had been yelled at too by the Marines, she putting her hands behind her head and going onto the ground. No one was exempt from the combat rage and discipline on the battlefield.

Kincaid didn't know why he did it as a rifle from the responding MPs was tossed his way, but the now empty can in his hand, the hair on his knuckles burnt off, had been thrown at Parna.

The sound it made had been hollow, and she felt nothing from it as it smacked off her skull and the man who threw it walked up to her, rifle aimed.

She knew what he wanted as she settled down to her knees, next to the bodies and the encroaching crimson, and accepted her forever fate.

" _Please_ , Delilah," she started, pleaded. " _She told me to-_ "

The sound of the rifle's stock smacking her head, her skull, sending it nearly ninety degrees had been Kincaid's extent of interest in her words as he closed that distance.

At the end of it all, they were all staring face down into the earth.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 63**_

 _ **Falmart – Several Kilometers outside Crety**_

* * *

And the Rangers had hit the ground feet first, rappelling down from the two Black Hawks as they kicked up dust and sand, flying away leaving the soldiers in the dark, but on a mission.

They were still on plains, but just barely: Crety forward of them behind a forest drenched by a recent sand storm. It was an unnatural event, but such occurrences had happened in Africa when the Sahara expanded.

The sound of the Black Hawks slowly fading out into the dark, and, without formality, the Rangers were alone and in their element beneath, tonight, a blue moon.

"It is La's moon out tonight."

Emerson had still kneeled as he looked at the stars and the moons.

"Come again captain?" One of the Rangers asked.

"These moons, legends have it that they change color according to what God has overwatch of the world tonight. Seems like Lelei's patron god is on deck tonight." he explained, standing up, smelling fresh air and the night around him for a moment of peace.

"You know, seeing as Gods exists in this world, would it be a bad idea to, you know, take one for our duration here?" Peters asked as Khan sniffed at the dirt idly. The nature of the Gods of the Special Region had been a very downplayed measure by the Special Task Force, but still, Rory had her followers developing on Earth. Many had called her a false prophet, Lucifer in the flesh, but whatever the matter was no one who hadn't seen her in action would've believed her a God.

"Well, I don't think it's a bad idea." Masterson had shuffled his Peacemakers on his belt. "Long as my patron god is Samuel Colt." It was a halfhearted statement, but he looked up at the moon all the same and hoped that that god was looking over someone else tonight.

Peters had shook his head as Emerson rose his hand, only to point forward into the forest, night vision goggles on. Without ceremony the Rangers moved forward.

"Then again, Gods don't always save us, do they?" the dog handler had sarcastically let out.

Of all the things Hitman did to blend into the populace on their own volition, from the cloaks, to learning the Lingua Franca, they still had a long way to go. As the first of the cloaked Rangers made their way into the brush, some had donned their night vision goggles in a rather… Roman covering.

Some of the Hitmen in their spare time had used the skins of wolves to draft onto their cloaks from the Rose Order, and on top of their heads had been the coverings of their NVGs: the taxidermed heads of the wolves themselves.


	35. 2-14: Patches

_**A/N:**_

 ** _Mr. LazRs:_** I'd definitely be interested, but I can't force anyone to. This is a rather big story, after all.

 _ **microzombie**_ : I can tell you've certainly been through a ride with this fic, and I thank you for that, especially since you're able to see past the gore, the blood, and see the simplicity of what is happening now at some form of plot level. As for Bannon? Yeah, as Faust has said, she's my pride and joy at the moment. You could probably tell through the writing right now, and Emerson won't get a huge star role again until Section 3.

 ** _Derain von Harken:_** Thanks for actually pointing that out, actually. Keeps my head on straight in regards to the Gods here.

 _ **Guests, in general**_ : Thanks for the kind words, always nice to have people spend a word or two just for a reaction. Helps gauge who's reading this far in.

 ** _Guests, on Bannon_** : Bannon isn't a reference character, she pretty much entirely original in her development and origin. However her big trait: her voice condition, was inspired from Generation Kill's Lieutenant Colonel Ferrando. Her last name is taken from Captain Bannon in the World in Conflict videogame, a rather incompetent officer that redeems himself in the end. The name is the only thing she shares with him, and it's something I just went for out of a lack of any better option.

she's a precious downtrodden princess and i don't treat her well and it kills me

 _ **In General**_ : Rather normal chapter. Also: Ramirez looks like Benito Del Toro and Mitch looks like Josh Brolin. That is all.

* * *

 ** _Section 2-14_**

 ** _Posted on 8/6/2016_**

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 63**_

 _ **Falmart – Arnus Hill – Camp Omega – Field Hospital**_

* * *

Perhaps it was the fault that no one was looking, but the ghosts of American wars had appeared in the moonlight as silently as the cloaked attackers that came to Arnus Hill had.

Drifting into the courtyard, astrewn with the bodies of the dead, the dying, and the responding.

They dressed a bit like the Rangers: their gear, their clothes, the way they carried themselves, it all spoke to tactical precision which was both cutthroat and literally cut throats. They wore a shade of grey and blacks on their form: their plate carriers dark, barely perceptible shapes on top of grey jumpsuits.

Agent Mitch Beckett didn't see the collusion between the name of his unit in the Special Region and how they looked.

The codename was one only they and the American command staff had known, the Japanese simply told that they had been Pierce's security group. It was Mitch's oldest callsign, one he had held during his station chief days in the Middle East after Bin Laden, and it was the one that he carried through the end of the world: Grey Fox.

So they had walked out onto that killing field with Pierce, cloth face protectors covering the bottom half of their faces, their eyes hidden behind shades and goggles.

Pierce himself, his grey hair sweated down in his own oil and sweat had gone out in barely his boxers and white t-shirt, his combat kit otherwise covering him as he patted along in sandals.

His 590 was held in one hand as his other was available to point out orders, to yell, to direct the orders of the night.

"I want all these bodies lined up and checked! If I see any of them in the morgue right now I'll take care of this damn operation myself!" The colonel had yelled, the Marines that responded yelling their affirmatives as the bodies were dragged, red streaking, across the stone and gravel courtyard.

Impossibly, gunfire continued to ring out in Arnus Hill: more cloaked figures trying to run, to fight.

The MARSOC team had encountered quite a few on the way from the barracks, and whatever this was, whatever the nature of this attack, the very fact that Delilah had seemed to lead it had spelt only one thing:

"It's looking like an insider attack, Pierce." Agent Beckett had rattled off as he looked at the bodies being dragged across: how diverse they were had been dependent on the population of the Corridor.

They had been out there only five minutes after the MPs and MARSOC had finally gotten to the courtyard, if any more time had passed Pierce had been ready to jump out the window to help his people.

Yanagida and Blackburn had long been hauled onto stretchers and rushed back into the hospital they had just left, Blackburn's smokes and Yanagida's glasses left behind. Kincaid had still defiantly wore his own spectacles, even as he stood there, bleeding, rifle down on those taken prisoner. He was bleeding profusely, yes, but one of the medics had slapped him, almost literally, with biofoam and a bandage which wrapped around his head along the mark of Delilah's.

If it hadn't been for the color of the moon in all of its vibrance and the dead beasts who had been among the attackers, Pierce had been sent back in time.

Obama was president again. There were two Koreas. Bernie Sanders was still in the running. David Bowie and Muhammed Ali were still alive. Dubai was still gleaming. _**The Afghanis were at his doorstep.**_

Pierce, an officer in command of a fighting force that that world had never seen before, was still liable to how he earned his stripes.

He remembered his first day as a lieutenant in the War on Terror, before it all fell apart. The former lieutenant of that out post in the mountains of north eastern Afghanistan had been injured in a fight with the Taliban fighters in the valley and he had been sent in as a replacement, the Marines there having long since taken orders not from any officer, but instead the land and the Taliban.

It was they that truly dictated their actions.

All they could do was deal with it as Marines did, with their clothes having long faded to a brown and green, barbed wire surrounding their outpost on top of a hill.

Their first attack they sustained, Pierce would never forget. Not because it was overly aggressive, or deadly, or any such an anomaly in the countless attacks by the Taliban.

It was memorable because of what the Marines had called the Taliban that often tried to get through to that outpost. Harkening back to another war, they had called them Gooks.

In the middle of the night, an illumination flare shot up and men rushing to their positions amid gunfire, Pierce had thought he was sent back in time to the Vietnam War as Marines shouted out:

 **"Gooks in the wire!** _ **Gooks in the wire!**_ **"**

So now, in Pierce's mind, the Afghanistan National Army had failed once again, and they had let the Taliban within spitting distance of his men.

The grey colonel had turned around, blue eyes furious, perfect fake teeth grinding as his mind, his body remembered where he had come from. He was there when the Iraqi Green Zone fell, he was there when Iraq fell under siege for the last time. He was there when the mass retreat to Kabul was called, reminding him why these wars were able to be waged nowadays.

He looked at Agent Beckett and remembered why his team was here: President Dirrel's little secret before he had left office.

His secret was now Pierce's, and that secret was a weapon.

"Greyfox Actual, find out who was responsible for this."

Mitch had run a hand through his curled brown hair, up at the moon in the sky and to his men. Time to do his job. "Give me a day and several sandbags."

"Anything you need."

Beckett had pointed at the survivors, the captured, on their knees and zipties around their feet and legs by the MPs. Some had struggled, some had simply assumed their fate. A raised eyebrow had noted his intent.

"We'll have to wait about what Hazama says regarding them." Pierce had relented, making his way into the hospital to check up on Blackburn.

Beckett had only bided his time, getting a good whiff of the air as he was left alone with his team, left alone to do what he was told. It smelt, distinctly, of nostalgia. "Fair enough. I only need one nut to crack anyway."

One of his agents had looked at the blood stained ground disdainfully before looking to his leader. "Does this take precedence over tailing Itami?"

"Sergeant Bannon will take care of them well enough for the time being," Beckett had rolled his neck as he had looked over to the Little Birds taking off from Arnus. They were going to hitch a ride. "besides, we have to go put the Fromars in their place. _**Especially with Lelei pulling the shit she's doing**_."

* * *

 _"Overlord Actual to Assassin Actual, how's Kilgore doing Isaiah?"_

" _Locked down entirely, security teams all called up and now guarding all of our PXs as well. What's going on Adrian?"_

Ryolu had barely heard the conversation between Colonel Pierce and Major Sevson over radio as Pierce had passed him by, the boy caught at the hospital when it all went down.

He was at the hospital that night completing the checklist that Lelei had left for him to carry out in her absence, that particular item being to offer amnesty to any of the Imperial officers that were taken back for medical aid by the Marines and JSDF in exchange for being placed within Italica's guard.

That agenda didn't find much completion tonight once the gunfire had started and the guards inside the hospital suddenly found themselves locked in as they saw two officers and a tanker take on a band of would be assassins.

Noriko had been picked up immediately once that magic barrier went down, she rushed off to a safe room as the bloodied began to shuffle in and, for the first time, the hospital was packed. A Marine and JSDF mission earlier had brought in a mass number of slaves extracted by the JSDF and many of them, courtesy of working in a coal mine, needed dire assistance.

The hospital had been crammed beforehand, now, with blood at its doorstep, it had been an intolerable event that made Ryolu find himself trapped in the main hallway of the white hospital, scrunched between stretcher and person as patients that could walk emerged from their rooms to see what was going on.

" _Do we have Blackburn's blood type on file?!"_

" _Negative! Someone put a call to Kilgore ASAP!"_

" _How about Delilah's?!"_

" _Didn't we take a sample from the other bunnies?!"_

" _Her hand is gone and I'm about to lose her leg too! Jesus_ _ **fuck**_ _Blackburn what the fuck did you do?!"_

" _Ah shit that's knee rubber, no way_ _ **we're saving that**_ _,_ _ **cut it!**_ _Above the knee!"_

"Her injuries are too extreme, we need to get her across the Gate back to Central now!"

" _Call up a convoy, I need at least five trucks! We've got people_ _ **dying**_ _here!"_

And out from all of it, the voice of one of the victims: the American one.

" _ **You keep that bitch alive!**_ " The absurdity of it all was that the kukri that she had lodged in his shoulder had still been in there as he sat up from the stretcher, pointing with that same arm. The ER staff hadn't seemed to listen however, not when they had put his back on the stretcher, trying to calm Blackburn down while also revving up the shrill wine of a saw and, in the mass of nurses and doctors, took it to Delilah.

Her screams had been the ruler of those halls as the blunted sound of bone being cut rung out, and, to Ryolu, as he had seen the spurt of blood that sprayed over the doctors and the unceasing movement of her body on that impromptu operating table, it was a _**horror story**_.

He clamed his hands over his ears as the screams came, the medical staff going mad as the casualties kept rolling in and no triage set. That late at night everyone had been overwhelmed. He wouldn't be so lucky though, not when he opened his eyes to see Delilah's leg separated from her and placed into a red bag, the tattoos and war paint still fresh as the blood that ran through it.

For the first time the Special Task Force had heard the screams of their enemies, and the JSDF personnel who had been already checked into the hospital for the nightmares of Italica had started panicking in their rooms, screaming themselves.

There was no gunfire inside that hospital to cover up the cries of human agony. No explosion to drown out the suffering of the exact result of the power of modern warfare.

This was war.

Not a war that the JSDF had thought of. Not the one with trenches and aircraft and cutting edge technology.

This was the war that was only type to be fought against them.

And through it all, the colonel himself had been helpless as he had seen so many bleeding before him. Only Blackburn and Yanagida had been his concern technically, but still, the plight of human suffering was without discrimination to him. He was there, in it all, unable to do a thing but get on his knees, clean rags in his pockets, scrubbing at the red floor to no avail.

It was hopeless, and yet it was all he could do.

Ryolu had crawled over, getting on his knees as well and did the only thing he could do.

He asked with his eyes, pleadingly, for Pierce to let him help.

He was a good helper. That was what most of the Fromar staff and Myui herself had deduced. Something Lelei wouldn't admit. He was a good boy, working for good people.

And here he was doing his job as Pierce could only hand off some rags to him and for them to get working on the floor. Soon enough, the hospital had started to smell of that metallic sting.

A colonel wasn't supposed to be wiping away blood desperately in a hospital. Especially not a blood of someone he had shot. A colonel wasn't supposed to be in this fantasy world, helping a nation who had never been to a modern war exploit the people and the land. A colonel wasn't supposed to belong anywhere in there.

And yet…

 _"What am I doing here?"_

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry you got caught up in this, kid." Pierce had said low, the close proximity of the two on their knees had afforded them that volume. He said it in English, but, Ryolu knew that language now.

English, it had been becoming the language which the traders preferred in Italica. It was the language the Fromars advocated with and, seeing as Ryolu was Lelei's assistant with them, it was a language he had been obligated to look into more than Japanese.

"I thought this was how it usually goes in war." That was what Ryolu believed, having seen what had happened to him ever since RCT3 came to Coda. That this suffering was normal.

The normalization of human suffering was something that Pierce could do nothing but take on as he didn't answer, and instead kept scrubbing the floor, left with nothing to do, helpless.

"What's your name, kid?" Pierce had ground out as he had also ground his rags into the floor.

"Roy Lucian. My friends call me Ryolu though. Madam Lelei calls me Ryolu."

And as Ryolu and Pierce had their dialogue the Marines constantly responding had been in their element, even above their commander's. Clearing the halls one by one. This was their operating space, and they needed it clear for all of their safety.

A dwarf had been at the forefront of some of the locals, having poked out from their doors and looking down the halls toward the commotion. One of those locals had been a bunny warrior in a wheel chair.

The dwarf had grabbed a passing Marine's leg.

"Hey?! What's going on!"

The Marine had snapped as he shoved the dwarf off of him in a shuffle. "Everyone needs to return to their rooms sir and wait for the all clear."

"Is this place safe? What's happening?!" Several of the locals had followed the dwarf's lead, asking for what the hell was happening and why, in between the frantic doctors and surgeons in the over packed hospital, why a bunny warrior suddenly was missing a leg and cloaked figures were being wheeled in, crying in agony.

"Everyone! Back into their rooms!"

"But what's goin-"

 _ **"None of your business!"**_ The racking of a shotgun's pump in the hallowed halls of a hospital had barely put a dent in the commotion around, but the Marine made his point, and fear was instilled in the air as he not only pumped the weapon, but raised it. _**"I won't say it again!"**_

How easy did the Marines change, Ryolu saw now, looking up from the blood he was cleaning up with Pierce. What was he to do but to stand up and run over to the dwarf, in between dwarf and Marine.

The Marine didn't mean to aim the shotgun at the child, but he didn't move his aim in the hastiness. Maybe that's what Ryolu wanted as Pierce followed him with his eyes and saw where he had landed, quickly getting up.

"Easy, Marine." A hand was on the Marine's shoulders, a bloody hand which imprinted on his brown shirt.

It would've been a stretch to say Pierce knew most of his Marines individually, but he knew a great lot of them. Many of them had survived that long with him, before he was in command of the 7th MEU. So the Marine had spoken as frankly as he could with Pierce while still remembering his rank.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you know how it goes. I was so sick of _**that**_ shit."

"It's been a long night, yeah," and Pierce had only looked down on the boy with his black face paint, remembering what had happened to these children in war. "But I think we're just getting started."

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 64_**

 _ **Falmart - Warlord 1-3 "Kingdom Come" - ?**_

* * *

The butterfly effect was simply the resounding effect of every action ever performed to some extent, akin to a stone being dropped into a calm pond's surface. The waves extend further and further away from the epicenter to almost impossibly long ranges, and the analogy of it was not lost on the Special Task Force.

Even in places where the battles of Operation Odyssey Ultimatum was not held, almost another kingdom over.

Word and trade had traveled faster than anyone in the Special Task Force could possibly manage, even Noelle in his Hornet would've been hard pressed to catch up.

What that had meant however, at least in the occasion which caused the moderners to slow down to a crawl and eventually stop on an elevated hill, Arnus long behind them, was that another war was being fought in their name at the outskirts of the Elbe Fiefdom and Italica's borders.

Schwarz Forest had been on the northern edge of Elbe, nestled into the Roldom Valley at the base of the Tybe Mountain range. The names had been foreign to the moderners, but Lelei had translated and put the landmarks down on Wilbur's map as they looked on over that hill over a burning skirmish.

Lelei had also translated that particular situation as they looked down on a battlefield of plains and fire and corpses long drawn between two settlements apparently.

No intervention by the Special Task Force or the Empire: just two battleflags of one city to another, tattered and constantly battering against themselves on the field in the valley.

"The cities of Urucan and Hovus." she said, identifying the two armies that lay dead on the field. "This battlefield is halfway between both cities."

The smaller vehicles, the two ATVs and the two bikes, had moved up front of the Humvees and the Abrams as Wilbur had popped his head out to gaze out on the destruction.

Lelei had hooked herself with a radio headset after she had woken up, all of the refugees waking up as the smell of MREs had drawn them out of their needed slumber. No sooner had that happened did the façade go on.

* * *

 _"Father." Chuka had called for Hodor as she woke up, rubbing her eye like a child. "Where are we?"_

 _Though Wilbur and Lumaban had been knowledgeable about Yao and Chuka's plight, they did not know how far the rabbit hole had gone as she found her father instead sleeping in the seat, and Lelei having pulled her away from the Humvee to give Itami peace._

 _"Hodor is sleeping Chuka. As is Sergeant Bannon." she had said simply, holding her hands, her soft, smaller fingers running over the mess of patches and scars that Chuka's hand become. For all the healing magic that Lelei had known, none could've gotten rid of those, or the ones that were born within._

 _Yao had been praying in the direction of her village, and so to Chuka had to get ready for her daily prayers. There was no struggle in her mind now, Lelei had seen. But last night there had been: seeing her "father" drive a Humvee. She had seen the conflict that brewed inside of her, trying to figure out if Hodor knew how to drive a car._

 _She was hollow at her core._

 _Her face was like the sky of fall, ever changing between two other seasons; the cold and the warm, the dark and light. To embrace either was to get rid of her true nature._

 _So Lelei left Chuka to her prayers, going over to the Ranger Humvee._

 _"Private Black?" Lelei looked up at Black as he sat on the roof of the Humvee, the contraption she had understood as supplementary skeletal support put aside as his leg laid flat along the roof._

 _"Good morning Lelei." he had said politely, "Sleep well? I didn't."_

 _Lelei had looked at the exoskeleton that had been taken off for the meanwhile, the pressure it had put on Black's leg relieved for the moment as the man had used his rifle to occasionally scope out perimeter around them._

 _"What is that?" she had gestured to the metal contraption, asking in English._

 _"We call that thing an exoskeleton." She had looked it over with a delicacy that had unnerved the marksman. She had tried to scope it out herself, taking everything in at once. Her need to understand what it was had pressed a lot of her decisions lately._

 _"Is Sergeant Bannon alright?" she had asked, below in the Humvee Bannon had slept with her Stetson over her face, the woman's snoring something that all of the Rangers had gotten used to in the last year they had been together._

 _"She's just tired, is all… Itami alright?"_

 _Black had motioned over to his Humvee, all of them had been tan and from the Marine vehicle pool. Amazing the Man in Green had try to use his phone to indulge in at least one chapter of Mei-Com, but that came up to no avail as the phone was left riding his cheek in his slumber._

 _"He is okay."_

 _"Well… that's good."_

 _"Do we have enough food?"_

 _Bannon and Lelei had been alike now in many ways. Whether or not it was because of the influence of each other, or simply because they naturally were similar, they spoke with the same unnatural coldness._

 _Black had licked his lips, he himself hadn't eaten much from his brown bag MRE, intent on preserving half of the chili for later if it was possible. "I heard you with the other three get around two meals a day for a week or so. Us? Well, don't your little blue head about it."_

" _A soldier is expected to ingest five thousand calories a day to keep at peak efficiency though."_

" _True. But if we're hungry, we're also angry, and being angry in combat is much more effective for what we're going to do. You dig?"_

* * *

"The Corridor has a trading relationship with these cities." she said rather bluntly.

"Hmph. At war again?" Rory had said through her own radio, notedly bored. Wars in any aspect had been old game to her. She had seen her fair share for a thousand different reasons. "A few of the more philosophical Marines told me that war is mankind's natural state. What do you think Rangers?"

"Way I see it, I don't got the fucking right to speak for human nature. Anyone who claims that is full of it." Black had sarcastically went on from his Humvee turret as he looked over to her, the two on the same plane.

"Well evidence points to that statement being true." Rory had been acting up near such a killing field, but the Americans had understood at that point, as cringey as it was.

Yao had hung out of the Humvee from shotgun and sat on the window, surveying the field before them as Bannon had revved her motorcycle engine, eager to keep moving.

The entire field had looked of the Boneyard surrounding Arnus again. But this was not a killing field perpetrated by them. It was a field of Empire, grappling with itself. Shields and swords, metal and men, strewn across pristine fields like toy soldiers.

There was no clear winner here in this tale of two cities.

"I don't remember this being here when I crosses this field."

"No shit." Bannon had throated as Ramirez had looked out with his binoculars.

"Large ass field ma'am. Won't be easy on our bikes." The former cop had observed.

"It won't be easy on me, don't you know?" Rory had all reminded them, she having taken her seat on top of Itami's Humvee of all places. To be travelling on these plains again was not a foreign experience to her. The brush of wind from traveling on a car however? That was new and she had craved the new.

"I'm sure you can handle it Rory." Bannon throated out.

Wilbur had popped out of his hatch with his binoculars before patting the side treads of his tank along with a bundle of rope. "We cut through the field, tie the bikes to the side skirts for the time being, yeh?"

"We going through _that_?" Annel had been a bit surprised. There was no arguing of course, but she just wanted to voice her own opinion. It was understandable as she had wrapped a piece of black cloth around the bottom of her face. The smell of death was only appreciated by one person in that group, that band of crusaders.

"Father, do we really have to go over their bodies? Shouldn't they deserve better?" Chuka had asked, leaning on Itami's shoulders almost pleadingly. The hands she did it with belonged to that field though.

He was sitting in shotgun, Doc having taken the wheel to avoid the obvious mindfuckery which Lelei had informed them about regarding "Hodor" knowing how to drive a car, the man silent.

"Unless we want to spend half a day going around it, it's the best option, sweet heart."

* * *

It never got any easier.

But it never got any less foreign.

Those that hadn't been driving or in the gunner positions of the victors had been out and walking slowly with the Abrams, amidst the uneven terrain of the field. The walkers had done their best to keep forward, to avoid the sight of the vehicles crunching bodies amidst steel and flag banners left scattered throughout. In the heat of that late summer the smell was not kind to those that didn't put masks on.

Loke however, even with her own gas masks on, the most extreme of the bunch, she had been gagging. " _ **Wallah**_ _, if I ever see another place like this again it would be too soon_."

She had killed men and women much larger, much worse, than her, but she never got used to the after effects. Squeamish was one way of putting it, but it would be understating her (rightful) disgust of a human atrocity.

Vultures had avoided the crusaders, warily keeping away from the true predators.

"High Command never briefed us about this." Bannon hadn't any mask on her face as she had walked over the bodies, slashed and picked apart by a war beyond their knowing. To her, the smell was tolerable.

"Why would they?" Nutt had lamented as he had kept his gaze forward, still driving with the window down. "Lelei, what exactly is the Corridor handing out to the surrounding regions?"

She would know. She handled most of those deliveries during her business as one of Italica's officials.

"Several of Italica's merchants buy clothing in bulk from the PXs to either sell back into the Corridor or into the remaining communities in Italica's territories, and from there the clothes are distributed out from further resellers." She had been out walking among the dead as well, her typical garb in all of its faded whiteness along its bottom touching upon the dirt and the blood. Why she had opted was beyond the, but Bannon wouldn't argue, not when she had occasionally dripped down and touched upon the husks, drawing some knowledge that was beyond any of them.

"There's more to it than clothes, Lelei."

Wilbur had said with some grate, him and Schmack having popped their lids and riding from the top of the Abrams.

"What do you mean, Sergeant Wilbur?"

"I remember, in Nigeria, when I was down there with BP, it wasn't the clothes that people fought about that the Americans always gave them. It wasn't even the food, the rice, or the power, not even the bloody feckin' oil. It was the money."

"I think what our dear tanker friend means is," Lumaban had caught on. "that we might be upsetting the local economic balance with what exactly we're selling."

"Or, perhaps, the local economic balance is being brought up to better standards." Lelei had responded back. The words were, dare say, malicious, but delivered in their monotone that everyone had expected from Lelei.

Bannon had heard it, a part of her brain agreeing, but she kept it down. No business was right to be done while they were walking on the freshly dead.

"A lot of the refugees that pass by Kingdom Come are actually farmers, I hear, beat out of business by the PXs… when the fuck did our PXs become super markets?"

As someone who only frequented the American PXs, Lumaban wouldn't understand to what extent the Japanese PXs were being built up by, part of it under Blackburn's responsibility.

They were god damn supermarkets. A gross statement of excess and availability made to those who walked through those doors.

They were supermarkets masquerading as military Post Exchanges: open to all who had the coin. Modern society had ran on the idea and execution of mass produce and availability. To offer such a thing to the Special Region was too preemptively carve out the millennia that they would've possible, taken to get there.

The Japanese language, modern health care, the promise of new citizenship, and the benefits of Western commercialism: that is what the JSDF had brought and brought only.

Outside their doors and windows of Arnus Hill, they saw only the positive benefits of it.

Out in the plains where Itami and his party had walked, it was another matter.

"I remember, when our village was still around," Chuka had started as the group had steeled themselves. "We were told to never partake in trade from Coda Village or the surrounding human settlements. Father here always told me that becoming reliant on the humans was one of the many ways the Empire drew in many of the other beast people."

"But I was a terrible farmer, right?"

Chuka had giggled as Itami posed the question, somewhat inane to her. _"The forest shall provide. Always."_

Yao had been oddly quiet from her riding with Wilbur, she having taken to next to his hatch, even moreso as Itami had appropriated a part of elven culture in his façade. She didn't appreciate it, but didn't want to say anything of the man rescuing her people.

"You know he could just ask me how to be an elf." Yao had whispered to Wilbur in some pettiness.

"Oh please, no one could be as wonderful as you love."

"So… Nigeria?" Bannon had asked the tanker to her back, seeing the man nuzzle his nose against Yao's just for a second to alieve her grumpiness.

Wilbur had given out a tired breath, going back into his past. "Yeah, BP tossed me around West Africa and the southern portion quite a bit; Liberia, Zimbabwe, Sierra Leone, Angola… I've done my time in that damned continent."

"Then why the Marines then? You could've easily been tossed back there." Loke asked in some innocence: care for another human being.

"I figured, if I wanted… I mean, was going to die, yeah, I'd do in arms for a country that took me in."

A silence had taken hold between them all as they dissected those words, floating off an English tint. None had taken up that conversation, and ended that conversation, save for Bannon. "I can understand."

They walked uninterrupted, crunching over ceaseless bodies from a needless battle, up until they had seen a human form, hunched over, fiddling with the ground as if an emu. That form hadn't been a soldier, or anything of the sort, but it was life all the same.

"Contact on our twelve. One foot mobile." Ramirez and Bannon had been on point as usual.

Itami had dismounted, rifle at the ready, Ortiz and Annel with their ATVs speeding up and away toward the man as Ramirez and Bannon hopped on their backs for the final few hundred feet. The rumble of the ATVs bouncing over bodies had been rough, loud enough for the figure to turn his head around only to see all the Rangers dismount and raise their weapons at him.

Surprisingly the figure, a man, had responded to the weapons by freezing.

 _He knew_ what they could do.

"Hands up!" Ramirez had ordered, shotgun up, years of being a police officer honing the delivery of that line. The bizarrely clothed man had stood up, a rather fuzzy looking hat on him and a satchel which had been brimming full of whatever he had been collecting. He wasn't just a man though, he had a name. Ramirez had raised his eyebrow at Bannon as her she lowered her weapon.

"At ease." she had said carefully. " _I know you._ "

The man had been on the younger side, his clothes an abstract smattering of what appeared to be squares of fabric: his pants entirely made out of the harder denims and even rug portions.. Around his midsection tying it all together had been, surprisingly, a brand name belt from the JSDF PXs.

In short: he looked ridiculous, like a harlequin.

He nodded, at ease himself, recognizing the woman with the eye patch. Itami had let his rifle limply hold on his sling as he looked between Bannon and the man, Ortiz also recognizing the man as he had laughed a bit.

"Who is this Bannon?" Itami had asked earnestly.

She was punctual with her answer. "I bought the neighborhood from him."

Finally he spoke. "Ah yes, I remember it now, Sir Bronxon from Pina's Rose Order had given over negotiating a good portion of Akusho to you. He had made a good decision I believe."

Bannon had blown up in the air and looked around at the death they were in, even underneath a beautiful blue sky and on an otherwise pristine layer of green wild grass, she taking her Stetson to fan her face. "Didn't we arrange for you to have housing in the Corridor?"

He had nodded fast as he locked up his satchel. "Oh yes, Madam Bannon, but I am a businessman at heart, and though I do have a room in Akusho to call my own near the markets, selling the fruits of this new Empire is much more lucrative."

"New Empire?" Bannon had repeated unsure, knowing what that meant, but denying.

The man had nodded in turn, pursing his lips. "Isn't it?"

The crusaders had all looked away from him for a moment, considering his words before shaking it off. Those words couldn't have been serious in any way, they figured. There was no way that they could've, at any time, been like the Empire.

"What's up with your clothes man?" Ortiz had asked, tilting his head to get a look of his pants.

"A question I get everywhere my friend." he had spun around rather eccentrically. He was happy in his clothes and Hitman couldn't deprive him of that. "It is simply a representation of my trade now. They call me Patches in fact!"

Patches had tapped his gloved palm against his bag, also a patchwork job of carpet squares.

"The JayEssDee-Ef PXs give out these samples of your world's fabric. I come into towns with them and I act as something of an… ambassador for your Empire-"

"We're not an Empire." Itami had iterated, Patches barely comprehending him as he continued.

"Uh, yes- anyway, I go into these towns with these fabrics and the people feel them, _and by how soft they are_ , I take orders and I go back to the Corridor and Italica to buy the fabrics they need."

"Selling them at a considerable mark up?" Bannon had finished for him.

Patches had looked at Itami pleased. "Who knew a woman could have such a good business mind?" Bannon had flattened her expression as she heard those words, Itami shrugging in empathy. "Anyway, what are you doing out here?"

"Hunting the Flame Dragon." Her voice always came from a place no one had seen, liable to stealth like a ghost in the haunted places of the world. Lelei had been an authority now. The Marines called her madam, the JSDF saw her as an official, and the people of Italica and the Corridor trusted her. She knew how to talk to the Special Task Force so they got what they wanted.

"Madam Lalena!" Patches had taken a kneel to the ground as Myui's right hand had appeared before him, her staff held by her tightly like a symbol of her right, her worth, her power. "I've done as you asked and spoke of Italica and the Corridor! The forces that protect it!"

Wilbur had heard the chatter through the radio, his brow furrowing as he caught the snippets of it.

Lelei had simply nodded as she raised her hand up. The once solitary Rurudo nomad now had the power to make people kneel, and it was a sight to see, every time it happened.

"Lelei?" Itami had asked the unspoken question with her name. The young mage had looked up to Bannon first than Itami.

"I believe the term is, "Any publicity is good publicity."" Of all the things she learned with her laptop, connected to a world wide web that was not of that world, she had learned the sayings, the quotes, brought upon by Masterson's ever so colorful use of the English language. "Even if that publicity fans the flames of conflict…"

"What, this?" Ortiz had motioned down to the ground as Annel put two and two together in her mind.

"Hey trader, you been to these places that these soldiers represented?"

"It doesn't matter." Lelei had never been the one to proactively talk as she did now.

 _"What did you say to me?"_

Bannon had opened up one palm flat toward Annel, keeping her anger down as she had just been spoken to in a tone she wouldn't tolerate. Not from a **child** that _knew_ better.

"Lelei. Let us ask." The mage didn't turn as Bannon had stated, ordered almost in the softest tone she could gathe, she not even noticing what Annel and the other Rangers felt: disrespect. "So tell me, Patches, what do you know about these two cities?"

"Hovus, they're a major cloth producer in the region. Urucan is the main trader of that cloth… I believe that man's cape is made from Hovican material." he gestured to Wilbur, he having worn his own cape today. "I naturally, with assistance of other traders, gave Urucan a new source of that cloth to spread out east of here, as well as to provide to its own seamstresses for new quality products."

"Hovus probably must not enjoy losing a customer then." Bannon's boot had found its place on top of a dead knight's back.

"Their only major customer, of course." Patches went on. "And seeing as a tertiary sources of income in Italica have… well, as you know, found a new source of fabric, I could imagine the anger brewing by Hovus was fueled by fear of recession. To my knowledge they had a contract of exclusivity written up over a century ago that was broken last week when me and my fellow traders came."

"You know for a fact?"

"Well I was there of course, both cities, trying to collect orders. But you should see them whenever word of the Corridor comes around, with me as the proof! I can see some families, some of the younger men and women, start packing their bags once they hear me spreading the news for such an _easy_ life."

Bannon hadn't known what an easy life was. Maybe she lived it once, but she had ignored Patches' words. "Are they big cities?"

Patches had looked at the ground as if seeing it for the first time before answering Bannon lightly. "Not anymore."

"How long have they been going at this?"

"Two days, more or less. Still can't understand why they went off like this. _It's just business after all_."

The gravity of the situation was not lost on the trader, but that is what had made Bannon scowl at him, the other Rangers sharing that same look as they realized why they were standing on that ground as it was.

He, and whoever backed him, had been responsible for this.

"Can you help us, trader?" Lelei moved on, not bothered by the very ground she was standing on and how responsible she was for it. In a way, the Rangers were thankful that she did. To concentrate on it would for them to become irreparably mad at something that meant so little, yet so much at the same time.

"Ah yes, the Flame Dragon. I've seen traces of it, yes."

"Really now?" Itami had asked, approaching Patches finally, having missed the entire conversation on who he was, on what he had been doing and how it related to the landscape. He didn't care, simply, unless it had to do with him or the refugees at that moment.

"The impact craters where it fell after this battle it had with your Empire, it was hobbling all the way back to the South. People within the Elbe's capital city tell me that its nest is there actually. They do enjoy the idea that the Dark Elves there would soon be rid of by that beast… oh, no offense to Kay or your friend there, of course."

"You're a very interesting man, Patches." Bannon had breathed plainly, her hand signaling the convoy forward, the Humvees making their way slowly around them, Lelei having silently backed off again.

Ortiz and Ramirez had backed off to their victors, still creeping up, leaving only Itami and Bannon to deal with the trader in all of his jitteriness. How many had been like him? That was the thought that crossed both the Ranger and the Man in Green's mind all the same; speaking of the Japanese and American Empire which came to Arnus Hill and challenged Emperor Molt and his kingdom.

"So Patches, you do this trip often?" Bannon inquired casually, she not exactly done with the man.

"Five or so times already. All of them very successful if I may say."

Bannon could respect that as her eye had brightened in some impressment. "I guess we'll see you around then?"

"Do you need any help or anything?" Itami had naturally offered.

Patches shook his head softly. "No, my horse and cart are hoisted near some shade nearby and we're well acquainted with Rory Mercury's guard near the entryways into the Corridor." he had pulled out from his satchel an Japanese ID, his name and other details plainly written, just like Itami's own driver's license.

It was an interesting decision that the JSDF had enacted against the Americans in order to sustain that they had been the ones in charge there, but it was one that had solidified the permanence of the changed Falmart.

"Maybe, though, if you could spare a weapon or-"

Bannon had shook her head with some mischievous smile. "No deal." Wilbur wasn't sure as hell going to give up his sword: the blade bolted to the side of Kingdom Come like a trophy.

"Ah, I thought as much. I know lords who would be willing to sell their kingdoms for such weapons. Can you blame me for trying?"

Bannon's had taken to the back of Ortiz's ATV as Itami had gotten back in his vehicle. "Safe travels, Patches."

She had waved the man off as he had emulated, not knowing what the hand signal was, but it wasn't until they were way out of hearing distance did he continue his scavenging. Not before mouthing to himself.

"Until next time, envoy of Emroy."

* * *

They found two small companies fighting as they arouse out of the valley. It had been as much of a quagmire as any other: men swinging their swords wildly at each other. No doubt the survivors of the battle, having reformed with what little they were and threw themselves back into the fray in the name of cloth.

It was the sound one expected out of medieval battles: iron clashing with iron and guttural, male cries of war. In battle, the soldiers knew, the world had shrunk to them and the battlefield they were on, and so the battling knights of Urucan and Hovus went on as the crusaders approached, on the edge of that field and having made their way through.

Purple and blue. That was all that separated one from the other. The banners of a boat and a cross being what those men had died for as Kingdom Come's company rolled past them, dozens of yards away.

Once or twice, a knight from one of the sides in the middle of his slashing and fighting would look to them as they made their slow way past: looking at the spectacle.

Rory had applauded them as several knights shouted her name, for they were dying for their convictions. Wilbur had draped his cape across his arm, the emblem of Italica on it to identify who they were being represented by.

There were warriors in Falmart that had grown into figures like Bronxon in their cities and kingdoms: warriors who had lived their stories, fought their wars, and learned the lessons to be learned in their adventures like the characters of tales old. One of them had been in that company right now, possibly the surviving commander of his forces and taking another battle under his belt.

His face was like a dwarf, but he had stood like a seven foot monster with a giant broadsword, his face almost illuminated red by the color of his orange bushy beard and eyebrows.

All he did was barely swing and suddenly a man had been made in two: his gleaming armor painted red, even as it bent the swords that came to hit it by the desperate enemy.

One had latched onto his leg, but all he did was kick the man off onto his back as he was crushed to death by the man's metal boot, a backhand to a grunt charging at him to his back resounded by the sound of his neck cracking.

It wasn't a pretty sight, though it was an expected one that the Rangers and Marines marveled at, even as his massive blade clashed with another, the sheer impact sending a man to his back as the horse riding cavalry that had come into that battle prior whinnied themselves to death.

The bearded soldier had looked up at the crusaders, his sword held over the throat of his enemy, as if looking for approval. He looked up for the first time at them, recognizing they existed, with their strange tan beasts with wheels on their sides, and soldiers whose clothes were so erratically painted.

No approval was given, no argument was had.

Apathy was death.

The sword came down and the head went off, and the crusaders looked away as most thought how useless that war was, and how hypocritical they were at the very moment.

If there was a time limit to be put on the deliberation, it manifested into Rory's writhing, her labored breath reflected onto the metal of the Abrams, just begging to split off from the group and go indulge herself in, to her, a domestic squabble that had once been her sustenance so long ago.

That was before she had been exposed to the killing fields of Italica and Arnus and basked in the pure essence there; before she met the Americans and their Japanese allies.

It would've been enough to make her last the rest of her sixty years of quasi-demigod status, but nostalgia was a cruel mistress.

The nostalgia of America's ever intervening self however had been tempting enough to act on, as Rory wanted to.

Any excuse, any reasoning.

And yet, "No." Bannon had said once, hoarsely. Itami had agreed with her as he continued to drive past, rolling his window up, shooting a glance at Lumaban and Wilbur in their respective victors over his shoulder. Wilbur had nodded back as Lumaban tore into her own mind, leaving the victor of that fight to keep on fighting.

"Any reason why we ain't gonna say hi, English?" Schmack had caught Wilbur before he had ducked back down tiredly into his seat, reapplying his helmet and trying to cut out the darkness of the scene.

"Just ain't the war we set out to do, Schmack."

Aggravation, it was in his eyes as he saw Lelei catch his gaze for a second.

"Right, guess we're being fucking selective now, of all times." he said under his breath.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart – Crety**_

* * *

The sand, it was everywhere, all encompassing, all enveloping, and perhaps the strongest force the Rangers had felt against them as the Sirroco blew ever active. Still, if adverse conditions wouldn't do the Rangers in as they walked through the night and into the morning, Crety having manifested before them in the sand gales.

Regulation and training had kept the Rangers organized however, several hundred yards out stepping on sand-laden grass, their cloaks blowing in the wind; the same cloaks that Pina had given them.

The winds were strong, strong enough to, at Emerson's insistence, to have some rope strung between clusters of Rangers as they walked toward Crety.

 _"Oh come on Kay, winds ain't that bad."_

Masterson's muffled voice had been answered by another muffled voice from one of his Rangers. "Respectfully sir, we didn't grow up in sand blasted Texas like your whiskey tango ass."

 _"I grew up in the fucking concrete jungle, my skin ain't made for this shit."_

The captain had shot back, the wind shear around them seeming to heed his pain through his mask and goggles. They all had pushed forward one step at a time, one shift through sandy hell almost as if reminding the Rangers of where they had not yet gone in their own world.

The exposed skin of the Rangers had been rubbed raw, Khan, in his whimpering, toughing it out with his own muzzle and goggles draped on his snout and eyes. But reprieve was had in the early morning light, a barrier they had seemingly broken as the wind softened and their view was not relegated to brown and beige darkness only several feet in front of them.

Another city of walls, a very popular build in these parts. A city that belonged to no one but the highest power: the Empire, but seeing as the Empire had reeled itself back in supremely, it was left on its own.

The city-states and vassal states of the Empire had barely felt the loss of the Empire asides from losing communication from Sadera Hill, Emerson knew. The situation at Italica with the Fromar and Myuis was one repeated up and down the territories of Italica and the neighboring kingdoms.

Many Imperial officials who remained in those cities and kingdoms had assured them that all was well and a counter attack against the "Enemy at Arnus Hill" was fast approaching. However as the days went on by the fruits of the Special Task Force were let loose on the world, the tendrils of the modern world were brought to bear in the trade and economy of Falmart.

Important were the people coming into the Corridor. More important to the Japanese were the products going out with the traders that had signed deals with the Japanese PXs.

None had come to Crety however, as far as they knew.

"Gentlemen, welcome to Crety." Masterson had been the first to wipe off his dust mask underneath his hood and cloak.

A few of the Rangers had shaken their legs down, getting rid of the damnable sand that had creaked up and down in places that grit was not appreciated. Those with the hoods of wolves had shaken the sand out of their worn animals. Their masks too, they had been less of the scary traditional type, a plexiglass panel covering their face with the breathing apparatus below, more akin to modern firefighting equipment.

"Tell me," Emerson had started as he had shaken out his dust filter. "Why do you dress like the Frumentarii?"

Peters had been one of those that had worn the wolf skin, a good half of Emerson's detachment had as well. "A package from Bozes was mailed to us before we left." he said, running his hands over Khan's own fur and clearing it. The dog had weathered the weather well enough. "Said the closest equivalent of special forces in the Empire wore them."

Emerson had spit at the sand as he had gotten it out of his mouth, seeing the clever shade that Bozes had sent them. "I think a little was lost in translation, Peters."

"Yeah?"

Rifles were cleared and reloaded, sand being dumped out of every crevice. "She's calling us what she thinks we are, Peters."

He had heard of some of the senators talk to him about the particular organization within the Empire which had worn the wolf's heads. The fear of being tracked down by these people was not lost.

 _"Hitmen."_ Another Ranger had put two and two together: Sanders, the Hawaiian woman. The oldest woman of Hitman, her brown curly hair barely surviving with its ponytail. She had been one of the best multi-linguist in Hitman, much to Emerson's chagrin. He had considered bringing her along to the Capital, but Pina had hardly know the woman (or most of Hitman for that matter).

The soldiers he brought with him today had been the soldiers that were the dependable base of Hitman. For all the bullshit, the drama, and the antics of a quarter, the rest had kept their heads in the game and not gotten to full of being in a fantasy land.

Masterson had his helmet on, the man shaking that and letting the particles burst from it, talking all the while through his mask. "Figures. Drill bitch doesn't like us too much."

Emerson had only laughed with his breath as he brought his binoculars up. "You should see this one Rose Knight, some girl named Hamilton, she was always picking a fight against me. She had spirit."

"She cute?" Private Tony Rockwell had asked, one of Hitman's younger members and constantly confused. He was cute though, that much Emerson would admit. Boy with his face belonged in a boy band as opposed as a group like Hitman.

The ridges on his forehead had sand in them as he rose his eyebrow at the captain, the man looking back at him with a look of comic disbelief. "You serious Tone?"

Tony flared out his hands. "That big guy Tomita is screwing Bozes, when do I get my princess pussy?"

The captain shook his head in some disappointment. _I made good PowerPoints regarding fraternization and no one was listening!_ he had thought in some selfish ire.

Love was love though, and he would know, even as inappropriate that it was here.

"You get your pussy when you go home, which is why I have a chastity belt on Cam."

Emerson was kidding of course, but Masterson played along as the team finally shook themselves clean of what sand they could. "And that chastity belt is currently chaffed as fuck, mind if you take it off Kay?"

"Please it's only the third date Cam." Emerson had said bluntly, looking through his binos at the battlements of Crety with its stone wall. Sand had accumulated in all the slits for archers and on whatever flat surface there had been. Clearing the damnable stuff had been beyond question, but still, guards had a duty and he had seen none from that far out. "Guards on duty seem to be missing, no visible signs of battle."

Several other of the Hitmen with their scopes and binoculars looked out at the same hazy view of Crety. "Reminds me of Italica before we blew it up and built it again." one of them said, impressed almost.

"So what will it be this time? Another bandit horde? Masterson loses an eye so he and Sergeant Bannon can have a matching set?" Another had breathed out, tired.

"Best case scenario is that this place was abandoned by Imperial order and we just have a ghost town. Worst case is everyone is dead."

"Great, that just leaves everything in the middle." Masterson had racked his rifle back once, catching the round midflight before pocketing it. "You know what they say though: We came, we saw, we conquered."

"I thought the orders were to confirm Crety's status and exfil, Sergeant Masterson." Tony had elbowed him verbally.

"That too."

"We good Hitman?" Emerson had riled them all up once, no one saying a negative. "Good, keep the spread, don't try to look too mean."

They walked on, weapons up, scanning their front as the walls of Crety appeared over them. They were cloaked in the shadow of the wall soon enough, no would be defender calling out.

Emerson had called out in turn with the Lingua Franca. " _This is Frumentarius_ _ **Kay Ro Bronxon**_ _! Representing the City of Italica underneath her majesty Myui Fromar! Is anyone there?!_ "

Just as thousands of immigrants had assumed new names coming to America, Emerson had adopted his own in this new world, and it was more than just a disguise: it _**was**_ his name.

He had repeated the call several times, several of the Rangers scanning the battlements to no avail, Masterson going up against the giant wooden door that served as the city's entry way amidst the stone perimeter.

He didn't expect any of it to give inward as he had backed up, his rifle brought up to his cheek as he leaned into it, two of his riflemen pulling in behind him as they entered Crety to little fanfare.

As that had happened the party had opened the doors fully in earnest, showers of sand coming down to nothing but a dusty effect.

"There are fucking _oak trees_ out there man, and we get all this fucking sand." A Ranger had spited as they had walked into Crety: a ghost town. In the early morning light there had been some darkness still within it, flashlights clicked on the rifles of those who had them equipped. Sand had accumulated, the occasional window or piece of roof kicked to the street below. Nothing major however.

The Rangers didn't even need to vocalize that as they had took their first steps on mainstreet Crety. Once or twice they had taken a peek inside the tightly packed buildings through their open doors or windows, but nothing had come out of it, nothing but the knowledge they were alone.

Khan had been sniffing at the sand, his head twitching as his head had poked around, curious.

"These storms aren't that bad, are they?" Masterson observed, kicking some of the sand from one pile into another. "If fucking ranch folk back out west can deal with these storms, these people can sure as shit probably."

"Seems affluent… I mean, far as I can tell." a Ranger spoke as he poked at an open stand, some pottery for sale still having stood the test of the elements… if not sanded down a bit. "You sure we had a bunch of wizards and shit take up shop here?"

Emerson had nodded as he took to behind a stand as Hitman made its way down main street, breaking open a lock on a cupboard behind the display. A few potions of vibrant sort had still been in there, untouched. As far as potion making and alchemy was concerned the Empire and its citizens had that down to a letter.

Color coded and all as expected. It was almost comical that any potion meant for healing had been dyed red by either food coloration techniques or actual blood, several of which had a part of that assortment as Emerson had, good naturedly, handed off a few denarii to inside the cupboard while taking the bottle of red.

"Pretty certain. Folks like Mister Cato usually stop by this place every few months to know what's trendy in the magic world." Emerson had popped the cork of the bottle as the rather bitter smell of the concoction was able to beat back the mask he was wearing.

He had only let a little fall onto his left palm, using his right hand to spread up and down his forearm to little effect. Scars were not easy to beat back, Bozes' claws still having persisted on his dark cheek.

"Can you drink that stuff?" Tony had asked as he passed by the stand as Emerson rejoined the group, ever so carefully taking their tour. He got an explanation as Emerson handed the bottle over to him, motioning to his hydration pack to be poured in.

"If you water it down, yes. Otherwise, no."

"How'd you figure?"

"Ah, me and Pina drank it with watered down beer during my bad days in the arena."

"You had bad days in the arena?"

"Every day I was in the arena was a bad day."

He drank with Pina on those days, remembering of those hot nights on hot tar roofs, drinking beer at fourteen years old. It was during those nights his life was simple, peaceful, and he had appreciated Pina's company more than he would admit. From her sips of American lager to the rather lurid realization her palm had been getting a bit too close to his own.

Maybe under different circumstances, Emerson had thought. Twenty-five and eighteen hadn't been too extreme an age gap, he had imagined.

Khan had growled from his throat, his ears perking up as his entire form stood rigid, Peters letting the leash he had on the Shepherd slackening a bit as Khan did what he did best.

Hitman had trusted their dog as they trusted each other, Emerson's hand signals having the weapons they held go ready, two Hitmen turned around and walking backward in their trod out of habitual covering.

The dog had snarled at a two story inn at the end of the street, he taking off, patting against the sand and leaving Hitman only to chase after him in a controlled run. The dog had used its body to shove open a sliding wood door, only to disappear past the courtesy curtains of that inn. The sound of tempered barking had made Hitman hurry their pace as, the point man had cautiously pushed himself past those curtains himself.

There was no need for guns to be up as one of Hitman touched Khan's back for him to stop barking, he currently scaring off who he had just found:

People. Regular citizens as far as the Hitmen could tell as they all shuffled in as politely they could in full kit and weapons gradually at the ready.

 _"Aw, great, dark elves now?"_

Underneath their cloaks and wolf skin they had, at least somewhat, looked half Imperial in their bearings and attire. Perhaps that was why the two dozen or so men, all men, had approached the Hitmen from their dilapidated inn, obviously made into shelter of sorts.

Emerson had been cool enough as he had been the last one in, closing the door behind him. Even behind the mask there was enough skin showing to not hide his assumed identity; his ears still shown and borne.

 _"Hail."_ Greetings in Imperial, Emerson had said as formal as he could, dragging his cape over his arm to display the Imperial sigil. "Having a good ale, are we?"

As men often do, an alpha had spoken up, assuming command of that misfit bunch of, as it seemed, survivors. "Seeing as we ran out of water, yes." An older man, bigger, thin hair but enough to cover his head. The two elders had spoke face to face as Masterson muttered some command of calm over Hitman as Peters took back Khan.

Some of the patrons of that bar seemed to be eyeing up the dog hungrily.

"I am Frumentarius Kay Ro Bronxon, representing great Italica and her holdings."

The man crossed his arms, his skin baked with sand. It was impossible to escape the presence of the substance.

"Sadera Hill send you as well? Well, no matter, I figured once our tributes stopped coming in the Empire would send someone to check up on us. Two months though? Empire must be getting generous."

Emerson had blinked behind his mask as he saw the rather smart reasoning behind this man's expectations of the Empire. Much of the Imperial economy relied on money from states within or just barely outside its territories. Crety was one of them along with, at its far reaches, Rondel.

"The Empire is going through some… troubles at the moment."

"Would explain why they send a dark elf… I didn't think the Frumentarii accepted the likes of you beasts in their ranks, least when I was a soldier."

Sanders and the other females in that group had been long lived enough, and in the military long enough, to know when the hungry gazes were on them. Enough so that Sanders had covered up her bust with her cloaks before understanding why.

Masterson had almost laughed behind his mask as he had parted his own cloak, hand on one of his revolvers. "Y'all horndogs don't try nothin' funny you hear?"

"Hey! We've got some women here." One of the patrons had called out. "Young too."

Emerson had raised his brow, seeing that the men didn't have any protection on their faces to signal any further problems with breathing, however the man had advised against it as he cupped his own hand over his mouth in a shake of his head. "Keep them on."

None of the Hitman had been able to get them off.

"Something wrong?" Emerson continued, wariness drafted onto his mind. "What's the problem with this town?"

" _Epidemic."_

"Biohazard situation." Sanders had translated with a certain urgency which had made Hitman tighten their masks further, rolling down their sleeve and rolling them into their gloves.

"For you men, don't bother. _**It only effects women**_."

* * *

In all reality it was a very simple explanation: an airborne illness exclusively targeted females of most complex species, those women, if left untreated, succumbing to death via a fever before a portion of them assumed "death's makeup".

Zombies as the Americans knew it: hosts for whatever illness it was to spread (as was the course of most of nature's children).

"They are the walking dead." as the alpha of the group had explained, some of the lighter hearted Hitmen giggling, trying to think themselves clever about remembering the TV series. "We've lost so many. Bul over there," he motioned to a sobbing man at the still intact bar. Drinking nothing but alcohol for the last few months in between scavenged supplies had been therapeutic for him. "He lost his wife very early on. Made Yuequins, and his wife was a very good player of them."

"Yuequins? Ain't that that funky string instrument Chuka plays?" Tony had perked up, reveling in being able to breathe without a filter as the women were dealt their hand.

"I'm so sorry." Emerson had felt for the man, if not holding a measured head about it. Once again he had been the right man in the wrong place again at the wrong time, but this time, it hadn't been too disastrous. They were here to preform recon on the town, after all. He was offered to see where those taken by the virus had been chained to the wall in the basement, but he declined. Peters however had taken the fall and the look, confirming that it wasn't an over exaggeration as Masterson grumbled.

"Walking dead that only inflicts females? Sounds like a load of horseshit." Masterson had whispered over to Emerson over his shoulder.

He had turned back to his sergeant in a whisper. Not that it mattered. English didn't move far past the Corridor. "Yeah well, it's some real shit. Me and Pina had to meet one of the Doves in the sewers once; dawg said that the Capital had to deal with that shit a few decades ago and they buried the bodies in the sewer."

"Real shit?"

"Real shit. Like, some beast or something with a long life span got buried near like, a tree and the tree was infected by that beast's body. Tree got infected and whoever ate the fruit of that tree or like, breathed the air around it got infected."

"No shit."

"Yeah, curable by eating… or force feeding, a Rakude pear and tons of hydration."

Masterson had affably nodded at Emerson as he patted his shoulder. "So apparently a history degree isn't worthless."

Emerson had always taken the chaff for having such a degree, but he had only elbowed his best friend as he told him to stand back. Historians would always have a place he reasoned. "Hey, girls, you hear that? Masks on 24/7 as long as we're here. We'll hand over our filters to you."

The several women that had been with that detachment of Hitman had all nodded in affirmative. They didn't need to be told twice as they stood at at ease as they could with the rest of Hitman, many of them starting to open up to offer water and food. This was their momentary reprieve from being on mission. One tavern was as good as the next, even if a certain bunny maid was absent.

Emerson had been looking decidedly Roman, all things considered, his beard and matted black fro not unlike how the people of Carthage were. His Africa roots had carried across worlds, and he couldn't help but smile at that in the back of his mind, even with tipped ears.

"I doubt we'll be able to scrounge up a tribute in due time, frumentarius, however I think we can be forgiven given the state of this city?"

The "dark elf" had glowered as he took to the alpha again, the two sitting at the closest table, sand swiped off of it. The Empire's persuasion tactics in regards to gathering its money had been carried out by the Frumentarii that Hitman had assumed as being with Italica. It wasn't exactly lying, but it was close, and they carried the same intimidation. Even a town with bigger problems couldn't help but state a reasoning.

"Don't worry about it." Emerson had said in some sympathetic tone. "We were never here for that. We were just trying to ascertain the situation the here."

"Ascertain… what does that word mean?"

Emerson shook his head. He should've known better. Occasionally he broke an English word into the Lingua Franca but it was no big deal. "What I mean to say is my commanders wanted to know what was going on here. We had word that Crety fell silent six months ago for reasons we had no knowledge of."

"Strange." the alpha had considered. "The Empire surely would've known that the sandstorms coming in might've explained it. They left with our soldiers six months ago."

"Really now?"

Yes. The Empire's never any help, not ever since General Foulke left with this town's compliment of legionnaires to some campaign to the south."

"General Foulke?" Emerson had snapped up at the mention of the man who had donated his bones to the weapon on his back. "He lived here?"

The older man had nodded quickly. "Yes, yes. He returned two weeks after to settle some affairs here, but ever since he left last he has not returned."

"Affairs? What sort of affairs?" Emerson had pressed on as several of the Rangers continued to give up their MREs on several of the tables in the tavern.

"One of his aides bellyached about the influx of slaves his legion returned with, but none of them remained here, of course. That was one, along with the amount of men he lost as well. The appropriate funds had to be allocated to the families of those who lost their men." Emerson had respectfully let the man finish his thoughts, but barely; the mention of slaves had the man vibrating in his skin with the question he delivered next.

Emerson had known how Foulke was with the details of his legion. He had to look through such documents when the Emperor awarded him with whatever of Foulke's possessions that didn't go to his family. What that had meant however was that a record of whoever was taken at Ginza was here.

"If I may, invoking my powers as a knight of Princess Pina Co Lada's Rose Order, and as a Frumentarii of Italica and her allies, I'd like to see these documents."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Bronxon."

Emerson didn't vocalize his confusion as he simply tilted his head. He got a response however.

"I have lived in this town all my life, and I have seen the Empire take from it while harassing its citizens all the same. Ever since General Konradi's conquest of the Western Desert this town has been plagued by the damned immigrants from that town, nothing to say of the wizards from Rondel always threatening to blow this town up. The only thing these sandstorms and plague has been good for is getting rid of the filth."

"Are you trying to tell me that you want us to do something before this town gives up General Foulke's documents?"

"I'm trying to tell you that if you don't, this town won't be here when General Foulke returns. You as a Dark Elf must know what it is like for the Empire to encroach on your own, correct?"

Emerson had shook his head as he took off his helmet. "The Empire has changed in these last six months, but yes, I know…" he had stood up, rifle at the ready. "What do you need us to do for Crety?"

"Are you aware of the Old Arunn Kingdom?"

As a history buff Emerson had taken the opportunity to extend his knowledge to the Empire's, and so he knew. "Yes, this town was once within that kingdom's borders."

"Well then you must know of the old botanical gardens."

"The Labyrinth?" That old magical structure made from a people long ago who strived toward immortality, or something similar.

"It was a home of many doctors back in their days. I believe a cure for those inflicted may yet remain there."

Emerson had held two fingers up before twirling them three times in the air, the Rangers reforming around him. "Change of mission Rangers."

"And what mission would that be sir?" Tony had groaned.

"Two day hike to a botanical garden to the west. Gonna pick up a few supplies to get these people well again. Once we do that they hand over some documents regarding slaves. We'll radio our current status to Blackburn once we leave and then get cracking."

Peters had poked his tongue inside his cheek, looking at Khan, the dog looking back at him for but a second. "Sir, wouldn't it be easier to just take the documents from them?"

"Peters, yes, but I'm not that type of soldier. You want to do otherwise?"

Peters had somewhat backed off at the very insinuation that he would be willing to do that: forcefully impose his will on an innocent person. "Nah, sir. Just wanted to make sure we got all the options mapped out."

"You guys hold up for a few more days, when we come back we'll have your cure, and we'll have supplies from Italica sent over after we get Foulke's documents."

"If you do so, you are welcome to our horses, or, at least, what remains of our stock."

"Thank you."

* * *

The horses were rather weak looking, but any excuse to get them out of those damned stables to literal greener pastures they had agreed with. Especially after being given some water and nutrition by us. We had enough to spare.

"Enough horses for us as long as a few of us pair up." Masterson had gone on his bareback. He preferred that style, the horse adjusting after a few adjustments.

I didn't think too hard on what I had just volunteered us to do. It was as simple as any fetch quest in the videogames of old and, perhaps as tribute to simply being here, we needed to go.

It was the right thing to do, after all. I bounced a message to Arnus over the radio, but Blackburn hadn't responded. I only assumed he had gotten it as we continued. Even in the storming sands and the newly discovered epidemic, it was quiet.

"You and Sergeant Bannon are pros, aren't ya? You know, with riding horses." Tony had shakily gotten on his own horse, another Ranger holding onto his shoulders with less confidence than he.

There was something that had pinged out of my mind, thinking about the personal skills of my people as I had gotten on the saddle. I knew them as people, knew of their families, their friends, their faiths and their wanted fates.

I knew that Tony wanted a Shiba Inu at some point in the next few years, preferably named Bunny.

I knew that Ramirez never wanted to leave the service, no matter what had happened. He hadn't the heart to return to America after the Race Riots, after his police service.

I knew that Peters had wanted to become a voice actor later on, his deep voice certainly giving him the cards to play that role with.

I knew that Masterson and Bannon never were ultimately intimate in a way many people assumed of them. They shared beds and company, yes, but they hadn't been one out of the fear they had over something or another; something I couldn't understand because I hadn't been them or in love with them.

A very particular type of love, one that I knew that weighed Masterson down more than any war or world could've. More than I had a right to keep letting on.

And yet…

"Her birthday is in three days." I had said quietly. I don't know why, but it came out of my lips as my horse came up besides Cam's. His gaze had lowered as he licked dry lips, looking at me with a sincere gaze only he could've given as a Texan. It was the look of a man who wandered too long, who found his home and yet continued onward, for some reason, for some damnable habit of living.

"I know Kay, I know." He spoke loud enough that only us, and perhaps our horses, could've heard as we went to the stable's entryway. His gloved hands had felt the reins in some contemplation, like a driver on the longest roads of the worlds, awaiting for it all to roll past him. "Want to know what I got her?"

I had rattled my head as I considered. "Sure, I'll keep a secret."

"Harmonica." he said.

My own heart had felt something of a warming pulse roll through it. "I approve."

"Of all of it?"

I knew what he implied as he looked away, almost in shame. I could reach out and touch his shoulder for a second as we moved into the street, the rest of my men still struggling to mount their own horses.

"Cam, do you think we'd be friends outside of the military?"

"Of course my man."

"You think me and Lisa would be friends too?"

"I don't know, but you've rubbed off on her."

I had rolled my eyes just a tad. "Cam, I'm your friend first, same for all of my people, and god dammit I'll plan the entire damn wedding if I hear you're ever planning on… well, you know."

"I ain't never been good at planning anyway…"

"My point is, don't worry about me thinking about you two. I don't want to lose you guys, and let me tell you I'm worried about her too right now, out there." he looked up, like I wanted him too. He was a great talker, but never the best listener in casual conversation. "But I'm also worried about George, about Talia, about Decker, Donald, Barbara, Damien, Brian, and Jameson."

"How about Itami?"

"Of course, but you get my point?"

"Yeah, I do Kay. I do."

I returned a warm smile. I'd been told by Pina I had a nice one as the team had fallen behind in horseback behind me. "Alright, we ain't in a rush. So, slow and steady, let's not push these horses until we get them to some good grass."

"Respectfully sir, I don't enjoy having a muzzle on me." Sanders had griped with her mask. "Hot as hell."

I had scoffed as that as I looked at my E-cigar, waiting to be used again. It was coming soon, but for now I was just riding off the high that my women had been kept under tight with their gas masks. I didn't want to deal with any illnesses on their end, at least without Doc here.

But I knew he was needed elsewhere.

"It's either that or forcing us to put you down, Mia. Now let's ride."

Peters had a horse to himself with Khan, he leading the trot forward casually. "As far as I'm concerned, this is a nice change of pace. A nice simple mission, objective. They'll owe us one for this, you know." he said knowingly.

"Not up for us to decide Peters."


	36. 2-15: Sand from Dubai

A/N: This chapter was a bit of an awkward thing to fumble about and type up, the contrasting bits, but we gotta get this show on the road.

Read and review, thanks in advance.

Before someone gets all antsy with me about what Beckett does in this chapter, remember in the original: They watched the maids beat this man's shit in before injecting truth juice.

It's not a justification, it's a parallel.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-15**_

 _ **Posted on 8/29/16**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 63**_

 _ **Falmart – Warlord 1-3's Unit – The Terilia Plains**_

* * *

The Terilia Plains.

That's where they were now. It took about two weeks for Yao to get here and then a further few days to get to Italica on the back of a trader caravan's cart. The straight shot route that Itami and Bannon had decided on was certainly the scenic route after the mass of bodies from the two warring cities. Where it had landed them had been an outcropping of rocks under the cover of night.

At night the plains tended to be a certain type of cold. A cold which Bannon knew very intimately from Montana in her youth: it was the cold of a summer's night.

One detail which all those in the Special Task Force had been totally taken off guard by had been the air quality of the Special Region: unmarred by even an industrial age. The air was, to some, sweet, pure. They felt healthier just being deployed there, and Bannon could sympathize as she and Ramirez had parked their bikes in the shadow of the rock for the night.

No use going underneath the night. They were on a mission, but they couldn't take on the flame dragon if they were beat to shit just by travelling.

The dim glow of light that emanated inside the Humvees had barely been enough to give the crusaders space to set up the Humvees in a triangle around Kingdom Come. Normally, in a regular combat deployment, it would've been a complete blackout in the name of being covert.

That was in a regular deployment however. Nothing about what the dragon slayers were doing had been normal.

Flashlights were put on as the soldiers disembarked, the Kingdom Come winding down.

Itami had been the one who called the stop however, and it had been a rather frantic call for a stop.

Anyone who had heard the shriek, the wrestling, inside of his Humvee would've known why.

"Establish a watch, I'll be right back." Bannon had hurriedly said as Doc tagged along with her in a rush over to Itami's Humvee, Lumaban already there as Itami had almost hauled Chuka out of the car.

 _ **"Why is father driving a car?! When did he know when to drive a car?!**_

Doc had his hard case ready as they approached, but he didn't open it. Not yet, not this soon.

The other refugees had disembarked just as hastily as Itami had almost held his daughter in a headlock, laying her back against the ground as he held her in as much of an embrace as he fatherly could. Whispering as much reassurances as he could into the back of her head as he looked to those that came and answered her cries.

Slowly the entire group of crusaders had walked up to the scene, looking over each other, looking down on an elf in distress.

 _ **"Who are you people?! Where is my father?!"**_

 _ **"Chuka."**_ Bannon's voice had spoken first as they responded, her voice always made people stop. She kneeled down as she considered the words she was going to say, her gloves taken off as she had offered her hands to the elf.

Oft times, during the private conversations they had alone, she and Masterson would talk about their parents and how rich and successful and loved they were to those who knew them from the outside in. She often teased Masterson for having it within him to be an excellent lawyer because of his parents.

Masterson had only played it off in some self-depreciating fashion; saying that he didn't want to be a liar. She understood what he meant however, and so that was why it hurt when she told the lie everyone had been ordered to say.

"Your father is holding you, hun'… _he's always been with you_."

Lumaban had licked her lips as she also took a squat in front of Chuka. "Remember, dear, we're on a trip out to the Schwartz Forest. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Then what about those- those soldiers we saw earlier? Why'd we have to go through them?! Why are there so many of you here with your iron tanks?!"

"Well, uhm, your father cares about you so much that he asked us all to come out like this, but you know. It's really not needed, and I want to kick your Dad's ass because it's all so heavy and… and…" Lumaban had looked up to Rory, almost invisible in the darkness, her two impossibly white eyes staring down at the Marine; judging her.

It was a judgement that was too much for a woman who held her faith so close to her chest: to see an apostle of a god look at her as if she had failed. Though she was long fated for that.

 _"You're a terrible liar, you know that?"_ Rory's words had echoed in her head.

Lying was a sin, and she was guilty now as her words faltered and her eyes became half lidded in disgust in herself, covering her mouth with the keffiyeh. " _ **I can't do this.**_ " She wanted to take care of Chuka. It was the Special Task Force's obligation to take care of her. Not like this however.

 _Not like this._

She walked away before she had said something disastrous.

"Shhh, shhh, dear, this is just a camping trip, right Auntie Bannon?" Itami had been sounding more forceful as he asked Bannon, but she couldn't be angry at him for that, not when she had nodded at Chuka as convincingly as she could've.

Carefully, she imitated Lumaban as she dropped her rifle entirely and opened her hands up to Chuka again. Ever gradually, hands were held and Bannon did her part in bringing the elf back to reality. "Yes, hun'. We're about to get up a few camp fires, get all warm and tired and fall asleep under the stars. Doesn't that sound nice?"

The elf sniffled as the pressure of Bannon's hands had felt familiar to her; motherly. It reminded her of years ago, a warm, happy place that existed in her mind, nestled between childhood and the life with her father that she lived now.

Up until Bannon had turned her head and screamed. "Camp fires, ASAP!"

* * *

"I dunno sarge, followin' 'round Itami seems like an awful waste of- what? Ten stone cold Rangers and five infinitely better Marines like us." One of Perla's men had bellyached around the campfire as the Rangers simply shook their heads, the man yelling loud enough to cross the distance between camp fires.

Not many of the people there had known how to make one, but sooner rather than later with a little help from Lelei, the glowing burns of light had provided sanctuary.

"Well shit Marine, you sound like you don't want to kill a dragon." One of the Rangers yelled back.

"Your sergeant doesn't look too enthused, respectfully ma'am," he regarded Bannon as she sat: before the fire and her rifle in between her knees. "she don't look too enthused about it, and she done it before."

Bannon's face had been that of a woman's, no doubt about it: round, once perfect lips long having soured in their default form. That unkindness that wretched itself out from chapped and cut lips to the bags underneath her hazelnut eyes which had given glares instead of gazes of a dying youth and fairness she had.

Her hair was down for once, bangs covering her thin, brown eyebrows that had also been slanted down in some sort of contempt.

"Resting bitch face." as she herself had described it, during one particularly drunken night out before Ginza to her CO and her counterpart in squad two.

That resting bitch face had turned into more of an actual bitch face at the commentary by the Marines.

But Bannon's face wasn't always like that. It didn't want to be like that. Her uniform and her gear turned her form into an indistinct, genderless form, more or less, but when she was dressed as a regular person, she was, by no means an exaggeration of Masterson's comments on her, starkly beautiful in her own way. Not by curves or stature outright, which she had refined anyway through her life, but by the way she carried herself in private.

She was a woman, through and through, and sometimes in the world she lived in the world forgot. She'd be lying if there wasn't some wistful dream once in a while where she had been a fair maiden in a civil world.

She had grown up like a princess, and life had turned her into the opposite.

"I'm just wondering why you folks aren't getting shut eye when you can."

She had groaned in response, picking up her rifle and around to her bike. She was going to take the rest she could.

Watch was twenty percent. Twenty percent of the people there would've been on watch for the first half of the night while the rest slept, another group would cover until morning.

The Marines were Marines, and the Rangers separated themselves form them as they spent the night as Marines did: talking, small mutterings and the comfortable silence of a world that wasn't out for their head yet. Even in the unknown Lumaban's Marines felt no fear toward the dark or the land or the people. Not now. Not yet. This land hadn't deserved their fear yet.

So they held themselves like campers, fully thankful that this night was peaceful.

The Rangers though, bar Ramirez, had been anxious with the dark surrounding them.

He noticed. "Lighten up." He said once, eating from an MRE bag. It was his first during this trip of theirs. "Back in my day, during my combat missions, we once spent days, nights, inside buildings no bigger than bathrooms, pinned down by enemy fire out of every exit. And still some of us found a way to relax."

Harris had been re-taping the picture of his son back to the inside cover of his machine gun as he looked up. "Is relaxing the best thing you can do in that situation George?"

"No, but it's not what the enemy wants, and we like to piss them off anyway we could."

"What a bunch of Rangers we must be to you then." Nutt had been poking at their fire with a stick, staring into the flickering light it gave off. As a man of explosive talent he hadn't been afraid of the flame, perhaps unwisely, the man taking the stick aflame and waving it around in front of his face for some amusement before using his glove to smother it out on the dirt. "This was how the colonial Rangers worked, you know. Into the wild of America's frontier to deal with whatever beasts that there were back then."

"Killing Indians and shit?"

"Native Americans, Black, not Indians."

"I know I know."

Before the idea of an America was beholden upon the colonies of the new world, there had been the frontiersmen of Appalachia, Green Mountain, the twisting forests of what would become the thirteen rebelling colonies come to face off against an Empire. Their enemy had been the land itself, the wilds of a world yet to be chartered by the white man, and, more often than not, the Native Americans who fought for their homes.

The DNA of those original Rangers had remained in Hitman today, and even though they felt unease in where they rested, in reality they came full circle.

For what they were doing now hadn't been too different than what Clarke and Lewis had done: treading in new lands with token representatives of the local population.

There was an exact term that described that aspect of unknowing expansion and exploration into a world that was not their own; brought on by the divine mission of saving people.

"Rangers are always supposed to be on the forefront of the missions we go on. As far as I'm concerned, you are a good bunch of Rangers." He confided in them with the moon above as his witness.

"Thanks Dad." Black had sarcastically went on, back laid out, broken leg set out for rest as Doc had looked over it with a flashlight, adjusting the exoskeleton as needed.

"George, you ever tire of this shit though? This might pinch." The corpsman had kept himself busy with work, Black cringing for a second as the exoskeleton whirred on its own by Doc's treatment. "You probably seen more action of everyone here minus Rory, and yet you came back."

Doc's questions always pinched in some way, physical and mental. Ramirez could do nothing but nod at himself in some amusement. "Sometimes it's easier to serve a country when you don't live in it."

* * *

Lumaban's dark hair had almost sparkled in the dark, almost a shade of ebony as it came against the flame. Her vision had been lost in the flame as her hands were interlocked, her fingertips playing with the golden bracelet chain with the Holy Cross on it.

"So yeah, this maid girl, one of the bunny ones that just came in, I think her name was Parna. She was working at the Officer's House and Delilah told me it was like, her first day or some shit, she I get her as a waiter with me and Poindexter here and you know we get a meal and get all that good royal stuff that they make, but then comes the time we get to pay for the meal and-" The storyteller's words had fallen out as he looked over to his fireteam lead. It was obvious she did not need to hear a story about Parna almost going down on him.

Poindexter had looked up from his phone at the sergeant. He had been the more feeling one of the fireteam.

"Yo, sarge, you okay?"

Lumaban didn't respond to Poindexter, lost in her thoughts.

"Perla."

The second time got her as she looked up. There was a cut on her lip from her training, face first into a wooden log with a few more splinters than usual, her blasted by the weather of Iran and the dust storms caused by the orbital strikes she and her unit called down.

Her eyes held innocence lost, a frown that she didn't know was there as she tucked her legs in.

She was eighteen when she went to Iran.

She was eighteen when she made her greatest mistake.

She was eighteen when she had killed her first human being.

The draft before Open Wind had done something America's Baby Boomer cynics had often wished for the millennials, Generation Z and Generation Alpha: a movement, a war for them to prove their worth in.

The wars did not prove them however. They destroyed them.

A generation defined by hopefulness for the future, progressive thinking and a disregard for the cultures and lifestyles born from the Cold War, made possible by technology and integration into a worldwide culture was in the end, destroyed.

A generational hole brought on by 9/11 and the War on Terror that spanned twenty years.

Too many had gone to war and come back. Too many had never returned at all for that generation to be saved.

Perla Lumaban, a once aspiring medical student, born from a Filipino migrant family, was the perfect example of her generation.

"Yeah?" She finally responded, looking up, half her face illuminated, the other half covered by the shadow of her hair.

"You alright?"

She had pursed her lips downward still, laugh lines strained on her face as she scowled at nothing in particular. "My minister, he taught me before I was born again, to recognize what it feels like: the falling. He taught me to see mistakes before they happen, so as to avoid all of that. He taught me that the devils never hide in their intentions, and what they do is just what they do."

"Are you falling sarge?" Poindexter had asked delicately. He was the man to ask.

Poindexter had been a tad below average in terms of size with the rest of the Marines, however he had been more than fit all the same, he making a point to roll up his sleeves and showing off toned forearms and the tan over his light skin. His face had been a young one, handsome, and perhaps would be better off with a little facial hair, however his hair had provided enough fluff. He had figured facial hair too itchy to deal with. Still, some people had preferred it.

Yao had Wilbur.

The gunner of the Here We Go Again had a snake lady.

He had a woman of feline variety who knew how to talk to flowers.

"Do you feel like helping Chuka as Itami told us these last few weeks was a mistake?"

The Marines had all recoiled back subtly at that question.

"I don't regret a damn thing Sarge, helping her."

Perla had growled in some disappointment toward one of her men. "I ain't talking about helping Chuka in general. I'm talking about the lie."

That far in, ends did not justify means anymore. Under any pretense, that line of thinking never worked.

It was so easy to think about taking care of Chuka when they didn't think about what they needed to do to maintain that status quo that led to the events of today.

No one answered, they all maintained their silence.

"Yeah. I thought so." Lumaban breathed out, aggravated. She had opened her ruck pack, revealing the two brown bagged MREs that had been in there among the dozen other items that a soldier needed for a patrol.

They were, bar ammo and weapons, drastically under equipped.

"So, we eat tonight, or wait a night?" Poindexter had asked, his own stomach feeling something of malnourishment.

Perla had looked up in some sorrow, closing her ruck's flap, shaking her head. "Can't afford to tonight, wait until tomorrow afternoon at least."

"Fuck shit."

"Language."

"Fuck you."

As the Marines lamented in their lack of nourishment, the Rangers had dealt with the same coming problem with simply ignoring it: either trying to fall asleep or preforming maintenance on whatever they could look over.

The AK-12 had been in Loke's hand in the light of the fire, a Maglite being held by her mouth to provide honed illumination. Most notably the gun was in half as if she was servicing it. The AK-12 had been a take away from Hakone, and the very fact that any criminals had gotten a hand on the modern Kalashnikov variant had been was scary enough in Japan.

There was something more however. If weapons had history as Doc's Luger and Bannon's Enfield had, then this Kalashnikov had a story to tell.

It hadn't been the current issue rifle in Russia's armory, though it had a substantial part in it mostly in due part in its early adoption by Russian special forces during 2016. A Kalashnikov rifle like its forebearers before it, it had been a rifle that never complained when used and had every right to be out in the field with Harris as its user: his adopted backup rifle.

But now Loke held it, a suspicion from days earlier sparking her interest enough to disassemble the rifle.

"Hey Brian, do you remember what body you picked up this rifle from back at the resort?" she said as she transferred the rifle from mouth to cheek and shoulder.

"Yeah." he grumbled up into a sit, having tried to fall asleep on his back. "Yakuza I think. Why?"

"This rifle, it's lying to us."

"Huh?"

She motioned the man over, holding the trigger mechanism with the lower half of the gun rather pointedly. "The cover and the fun switch tells us it's only semi and safe, that's why we thought this was a civilian, but it ain't. Got some really funky modification stuff happening in the assembly. This thing was originally full auto."

"And…?"

"This model AK-12 is a 2015-16 variant. Only people that ever fielded this thing in full fun mode were, I think, the Russian Alfa Group who operated in, by my guess, the Ukraine or Chechnya."

The other Rangers in earshot had been tuned in when Loke had mentioned the Alfa Group. They were a part of the special forces community, and they knew their neighbors. The Russian Alfa Group had been more commonly known as the legendary _ **Spetsnaz**_. Russia's SOF had been, arguably, many of the first boots on the ground when the Middle East had fallen apart, even if they contributed their portion of the blame to it. The reputation of the men who had first gone into Afghanistan in the modern era was not forgotten by the Rangers.

In a sense, the Taliban of today had been the sons of the Soviets that first tested them.

"What're you saying Tal'?" Black had groaned. He hadn't been a fan of winding conversations that late at night with possible political implications.

"I'm just saying the Yakuza either offed a Spetsnaz operator to get this rifle, or there were Russian special forces there at Hakone."

It was an AK that was worn in its metal and finish, the wear and tear on its foregrip denoting that, after it all, it had been probably some operator's personal rifle: a decade of conflict beneath its belt.

"Man, all these fucking guns of ours get caught up in some weird shit. I'm sure Doc's Luger is still in his desk back at Akusho." Nutt had also groaned. He hadn't any guns from Hakone, but his M32 grenade launcher had been at his knees, the cylinder clicking as he rotated it, hoping the rhythm put him to sleep.

"Hanging out with Peters' guitar and Masterson's Xbox, that's for sure." Doc grumbled.

The Rangers hadn't delved deeper into the mystery of that Kalashnikov, not when they were already up to their necks with Chuka. Still it served as a distraction; a suggestion of forces like them in play that they couldn't comprehend.

Perhaps it was just a natural inclination to the Rangers, but they needed their music to calm whatever nerve they had, so far into their expedition of their own, Loke clambering into the Ranger Humvee and going to the bolted on radio.

"MCR, Don McLean, Carrie Underwood, J-Lo… Why did we let Masterson put together our road trip mixtape without our input?" she groaned, flipping through the touchscreen of albums. "Ortiz, Babs! You got pick."

It was tradition that those on the watches would've picked music. In the Fromar Keep at least the Rangers would keep one or two of themselves awake at night to watch over Italica from the balcony of the keep.

"Don McLean sounds nice." Ortiz had gone off, smoking a cigarette as he sat on the Ranger's Humvee's roof.

"Go for it." His partner had asked in her usual bored tone.

* * *

 _ **Now Playing:**_

 _ **Don McLean – American Pie**_

* * *

 _ **A long, long time ago**_

 _ **I can still remember**_

 _ **How that music, used to make me smile…**_

 _ **That I could make those people dance**_

 _ **And maybe they'd be happy for a while**_

 _ **"Yeah boy! This is good shit!"**_

Itami had heard the roar of the Marines applause the Rangers for their music choice, Lelei especially looking up from her about to fall asleep state and becoming fully engrossed in an American folk classic.

Chuka, mercifully, had fallen asleep easily enough. The strain on her mind had offered an easy passage into sleep on Itami's lap as he sat near his fire. Yao had taken to Wilbur's shoulder against Kingdom Come's front slope, leaving only the original three with him.

With the flame flickering orange on all of their faces Itami had to deeply consider that thought: that he had come to be associated with these three people above all else. During the time when Kay had been in the Imperial Capital alone he had only now starkly realized he had spent a lot of time with Lelei, Rory, and Chuka as they found the roles that they were comfortable in within the Special Task Force.

With Emerson gone, he was alone to deal with them, and he became their go-to person to simply deal with in the Special Task Force.

That had only been a portion of an answer he sought when he asked internally: "Why me?"

 _ **But February made me shiver**_

 _ **With every paper I'd deliver**_

 _ **Bad news on the doorstep**_

 _ **I couldn't take one more step**_

"The Americans… why do they always play their music?" Rory posed a question in Itami in Japanese. For some reason it felt good to him that at least someone from this world did. He let out another section run its course before he answered, looking up at her pale white and black form in its natural form: in the darkness of night.

It was a question that was asked before to him, before Italica, after Hakone.

The answer had now changed.

 _ **I can't remember if I cried**_

 _ **When I read about his widowed bride**_

 _ **Something touched me deep inside**_

 _ **The day the music died**_

 _ **So**_

 _ **Bye, bye Miss American Pie…**_

Itami didn't understand the lyrics, the verses and what they truly meant, how he would understand it as a Japanese man, but he knew that this song was a classic to Americans. That was part of the reason Masterson chose it in the first place.

"They do it because they're so far away from home." He said once, softly, nodding at himself. "They truly are."

Rory had held her halberd as if a stuffed animal, cradling it in her arms as if it was as light as one. She rested her head along its metal pole as she considered what Itami said. She remembered that the Gate opened up directly to Japan, not America.

During her visit to the Diet she had caught a glimpse of a world map, the various nations of the world labeled out. For the Americans, home was an impossibly far ways away.

The idea of an American abroad was not a kind thing to think about, especially to those not Americans, however that was the duty they put on themselves to be there abroad for a thousand different reasons and treaties.

To many in the world of the Special Region it was a sin in itself to die on land that was not their own, or their home, and yet that fate had befallen many Americans in that modern age. Moreso than other countries, for better or worse.

The Koreans died on their peninsula, the Russians and Ukrainians fought over land that was both claimed as their own, millions of Arabs caught up in the wars that came to them in the last four decades, and yet the Americans, in the end, were there for them all.

Why did they do that, why did they die around the world, why did they do what they did.

Questions that had always haunted Rory ever since she had first seen them in action and saw what they had been capable of.

She had appreciated the Japanese too, Itami uniquely, but in the end she could not get rid of that one resignation that Japan in 2028 rebelled against: who they were today, was because of what America had done to them after a world war long ago.

"Then why don't they just go home if they miss it so much? Why do they bring themselves and all that they are wherever they go?" the Apostle responded in curiosity; curiosity for the mystery that radiated from the Rangers and the Marines.

Home was a word with a fluid definition, one lost on many Americans, many people in the world in general. But even here he saw two people at least that had no home at all but each other, three if he gave in and counted Chuka.

The lyrics went on, a few of Hitman and the Marines singing on.

 _ **I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck**_

 _ **With a pink carnation and a pickup truck**_

 _ **But I knew I was out of luck**_

 _ **The day the music died**_

 _ **I started singin'**_

The tankers had all promptly fallen asleep, Kingdom Come's turret gone directly to the left and raised up, Chains cradled by the gun's mantle as the rest slept in station or on the engine grill.

"I don't know, Rory. Maybe you should ask them."

He couldn't know. He didn't have the right to answer. Maybe Loke did, maybe Omar, maybe those who suffered because of American Imperialism, but not he. The words of Pops had resounded in his head ever since he left, ever since he looked around and saw that nearly all of the people that came with him had been from or attached to the 7th MEU.

 _"I guess you've become another American, Itami."_

 _ **Helter skelter in a summer swelter**_

 _ **The birds flew off with a fallout shelter**_

 _ **Eight miles high and falling fast**_

He caught himself stroking Chuka's hair as she slept, tracing along her ear. She was a beautiful young woman, no matter how anyone saw her. Inside however had been a storm which had been ugly beyond words. An ugliness which Bannon detested almost violently.

It was a treatable disaster which he knowing did not let treated out of fear of losing her.

"Perhaps, for Americans, the idea of home is an idea, and not a place." Lelei had said. Even in her dozy state of near sleep, her monotone voice never wavered.

"Who gave you that idea Lelei?"

"Miss Bannon."

Why he had been so stubborn in letting Chuka go however had been within him and who he was. In the stories he read, the anime he watched, these fair maidens always had a hero; they always had a character there for them to save them in the end.

Perhaps it was the pandering to the Otakus of the world that made the industry make these hero characters more and more able to be self-inserted to create the illusion of the reader being capable of being a hero, but no matter the case Itami had seen the trap, the correlation to what he was doing now.

He was no brave knight in shining armor however. No king of a harem. No master of his destiny.

 _ **Oh, and there we were all in one place**_

 _ **A generation lost in space**_

 _ **With no time left to start again**_

The song had gone on through its legendary length, speaking of the marching band, the 60s, Buddy Holly and Chevys down at the Levy. Though he could not outright understand the lyrics, he could understand the tune, and it was a nice tune.

 _ **So come on Jack be nimble, Jack be quick**_

 _ **Jack Flash sat on a candlestick**_

 _ **'Cause fire is the devil's only friend**_

 _ **Oh and as I watched him on the stage**_

 _ **My hands were clenched in fists of rage**_

 _ **No angel born in Hell**_

 _ **Could break that Satan's spell**_

At the very mention of a devil Itami had instinctually looked up to find the woman who looked like the embodiment of Hell the most.

Not Rory. But a woman who carried herself in battle with an almost bone cracking intensity in her step; in her gunfire.

 _ **And as the flames climbed high into the night**_

 _ **To light the sacrificial rite**_

 _ **I saw Satan laughing with delight**_

 _ **The day**_

 _ **The music died**_

The lieutenant had looked over to see a Ranger missing: Bannon. His gaze had darted to her bike and fortunately she had been there, her back against the side facing away from the flame.

It was easy to imagine Masterson as a cowboy, the man had looked, had been built, and had lived the part. Bannon however was capable in a deceptively graceful way. She looked, at that moment, resting after a cattle drive on the trail like the American cowboys of old, a Stetson gifted to her by Masterson reassuringly near her.

"You comfortable? Rory, Lelei?"

"Yes Itami."

"I've slept in worse places."

"Well, watch over Chuka for me, would ya? I need to go check up on Bannon."

He had brought his rifle with him as he walked up, only out of habit, closing that distance between fires. His footsteps were light, barely making any noise as he had found the motorbike Bannon used, she laying her back against its propped up frame, a finger tapping at her knee in rhythm as the muffled sound of J-pop emanated from her headphones.

She was keenly engrossed in the music, enough so that Itami had walked right next to her and only stood by, watching where her one eye had led: the moon.

The two had been in silence against Bannon's bike, looking at the green tinted celestial object that painted their faces a soft emerald. After everything, it was the most peaceful sight that Bannon had recently, the most calming light to fall upon her face and soothe. It was a sight she was engrossed in as she failed to notice Itami next to her, one of her ears being plugged with ear buds.

"Mind if I join you?" he finally spoke. The least he could do, he figured, was provide some company and conversation.

She jumped a bit in surprise. "Cam?"

By grace of learning English alongside Masterson and Emerson, Itami had spoken English in a familiar way. Familiar enough to have tricked Bannon as half her mind was devoted to the music in her ear, the other half focused on ignoring everything else.

"Unfortunately not." Itami had smoothly responded, the hope in Bannon's voice settling down in a groan, "Ah, you about to sleep? Cause if so I'll just…"

"No, no, it's fine. Have a seat, grass hasn't felt any better in years."

So he did, and the grass had felt fine for a seat, the motorcycle feeling less appropriate as a backing to their position before the stars, among the rock monoliths.

He had started for a cigarette, taking a pack out of his shirt, no lighter to be found. Bannon had noticed. "Hey! Harris! Lighter!" She patted Itami's shoulder for him to stand up and catch, none too soon as the metal tool flew through the air toward them, Itami catching it over the motorcycle, lighting his cigarette and tossing it back to the autogunner. The inscription he had on it wasn't something he would've agreed with, but it fit an American soldier such as he.

The lighter was thrown back and the lieutenant sat back down, taking his puff as Bannon looked at him, dim lidded.

Itami had caught her gaze, offering the pack of smokes up.

"I don't smoke, Youji." She waved her hands.

He realized he had been smoking right next to her, unsure of why he had come over in the first place. "Ah, sorry."

"My ex-husband…" she began, unsure of herself, but too tired to stop. "He smoked. A lot. Big Cuban cigars. Always, at the end of every day. It was just always everywhere in the house and I got so annoyed at him one day he just-"

There was a scar on her shoulder from a tear of nails, and she felt that pain anew.

She trailed off as Itami had taken one last puff before stubbing it out. She had a house, a home, once. That Itami had been hard pressed to believe from Bannon. "You alright?"

Bannon had held her head in her hands before leaning back, further up into the sky. "Gosh. I used to be so domesticated."

"Domesticated like me?" he raised his eyebrow, a smirk on his eye and his phone in his hand, the charm of a chibi on it.

Bannon scoffed once, kindly. "Heavens no." A finger looped around her eyepatch as it unfurled, falling to her lap as she continued to look up at that sky. To her, the stars looked so familiar. "Me and Cam, before we joined the military, lived a charmed life."

"What was that life like?"

"Hungry, miserable, demeaning, cold. Clawed our way out of it after seeing everything such a course of living could take us. No money, no food, no roof and clothes sometimes. Just the tenacity to acknowledge that we lived interesting lives.

It wasn't a pretty description, but something above that had stuck out to Itami. "…What do you mean before you joined the military?"

She raised her hand up once, knocking at the bike behind her. "This thing here, it makes me nostalgic. Kinda. Cam, he rode his chopper during his time without a home. Me? I had a pickup truck that I bought off one of my house cleaners… doing nothing but driving forward, it's nice, don't you think?" She was leading him on, and he had followed.

"I don't actually have a car, you know. Always used a metro or my bike."

"You poor thing." Bannon had entertained Itami.

"Have you seen gas prices in Japan? Last time I drove anywhere it was with a friend's car, and that was before Saudi Arabia collapsed."

Bannon shook her head as she recollected the "fond" memories of gas prices in America. "I guess I can justify what I personally paid for gas because my truck was also my bed."

"You know, many Japanese dream of such a life: roaming the open road. They think it'll get them away from the stress of our world." Itami responded, trying to think if he could do it, Bannon could only keep her face in something of a frown.

"How fortunate that they think that living in the back of a truck is a vacation."

Itami reeled back immediately, seeing the hurt in Bannon's body language. "Hey I didn't mean it like that."

A fist rubbed at her eye again. "I know, I know. But wandering the American Midwest isn't all that it's made out to be."

"But what is it like?"

"Sterile." She said once, sure of herself. "These long highways of desert and plains, at night, and I swear, you look for beacons of hope in the night, and those beacons turn out to be fast food joints or gas stations. No signs of life anywhere except for those outposts in our American purgatory: between Cali and the Mississippi."

She spent her youth there, on those long roads with a tendency to be traveled by soul searchers or rural families, driven to the cities or suburbia as the droughts and sandstorms came and gone.

"The Mississippi?"

"It's uh, this river that cuts down from just below Canada to the Gulf of Mexico."

All things considered Bannon should've smoked. She was the person who needed such a thing more than anyone: the escapism it provided. The bottle of Jack hiding in her saddle bag however had been enough. Alcohol being a newfound pleasure of hers ever since she came to Japan underneath Emerson's command.

"I spent a long time, you know, searching for those beacons of light, only to find a fucking McDonalds or Citgo. And because they're all modern in style nowadays they're way too clean for what they are: the floors shine, the ceilings are too white and the glass gives off too much reflection and…" she trailed off. "It never felt right, sleeping in their parking lots."

"Did you ever have a good night's rest at all? When you were out there?"

"Not until those final few days, before I joined."

The week she had met Masterson of course.

A part of her had been repulsed by that idea: that it took a person to make her feel better in a life where she had been damned by divorce, but then again, another part of her hadn't minded it all.

Shouldn't she be tougher than that? Be able to weather the world and think for her own after all that? Be happy on her own without another person in her life?

Maybe now, she could've.

But the Lisa Bannon today had been different from a Lisa Bannon who was a drifting divorcee.

She licked cracked lips, eyes staring through the ground, a warm smile on her lips as she realized how sappy what she was going to say would be. But it was true. In that year and in a hundred years since:  
"Home is where the heart is, you know." She spoke once, words she believed in.

 _Ahh._

Itami's own heart softened as he heard it, understood it. Home had a rather tenuous meaning to him. His own childhood home had been burned down, and the apartment he had now was hardly one where a thirty three year old man was supposed to be living in (At least alone).

Though perhaps it was because he never bothered making it his home.

For a while, after he and Risa had been married, there was something of a feeling he never felt before: having someone to come back home to at the end of the day. Inversely Risa had never had someone to come back to her, to her little abode in Tokyo.

"Where do you live, Itami?" One of his SFG trainee buddies had once asked him.

There was a little pride in his answer. One that a dwindling number of people in Japan had been able to answer: "With my wife."

"I remember after that first night. Masterson, he'd been hot off of his last rotation with the migrant crop workers near the border, living with them in hot little shacks in the fields where they worked. He saved enough money to, as far as I knew, to have a little fun for that last week before he signed his life away into the service."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Bannon had nodded, going back into her memory of years ago. "Do you know, how me and Masterson met, Youji?"

"Kay told me something like, you met at a motel or something in town."

"We're both creations of coincidences, me and him." She trailed off, feeling her dog tags rest on the skin over her sternum, cold in feeling. "Yeah. We were just beginning to invade Iran and, well, because I didn't want to be fucking drifting forever, I thought I was just better off as cannon fodder."

Itami had noticed her voice had dropped into her accent: that Western twang that was all so rare to hear. The way people like them spoke had been an indicator of how comfortable they were; Emerson himself hardly falling back into what, out of lack of better words, Itami had described as "hood speak". Emerson was supremely capable of it as much as Bannon had been liable to speak like Masterson.

However they hid their true voices; hiding as well the subjects they used to talk about with them.

"I figured that having an Iranian knock my head off was better than my other plan."

"Like what?"

"I dunno, take my truck and speed into Area 51, see what was in there. Or maybe donate my body to science while still living. Wasn't too happy with life, back then." One of her hands had gone up to the saddlebag on the bike, taking out a glass bottle of Jack. It was almost as if she needed to drink to talk to Itami. "I love this shit. Lucky I didn't have this back then or else I'd really be a washed up bum."

Bannon had taken a swig of the stuff before offering it to Itami, satiating whatever thirst it quenched. He had waved off, she taking another sip before placing it back into the bag.

"You're a lightweight when it comes to drinking, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know, I know, but officially I'm also a very by the books trooper who would never go out of line to help several others go AWOL while saving a PTSD stricken elf have some closure."

Itami had taken the hit. "There's the Bannon I know."

Bannon had blown air out of her mouth, making a flibbing sound. "Shit, sorry. I don't mean it."

"As far as special operators go, you're not that bad. It's cool."

The stigma of the special forces of the world; the cigar chomping, forty year old male who had been in the service for far too long and was cool and collected had died along with the special operators themselves.

That notion of invincible warriors gone away when put chest to chest with villagers with rusty Kalashnikovs in occurrences and fatalities that, were once rare, but now common place as the Middle East finally adapted to American War in a way the Pentagon could not answer.

Bannon sniffled at that. "Cam told me once, " _We are not men who dress like dogs; we are wolves disguised as men.""_

Itami had known what Masterson was quoting: another anime. Jin-Roh.

"Is that why you called me a wolf, the other day?"

"Yeah, mostly." She admitted, almost ashamed. "That and you kinda look like one, with that bushy hair and the mid-thirties thing."

"Is it too late for that Jack?"

"Yes."

The music of Don McLean had tuned out for another country folk song to the tune of someone walking five hundred miles.

"How'd you and Masterson meet again?"

Perhaps it was the night or the suggestion of Jack Daniels slowly making its way through her system, but she spoke of it easily.

"Well, he kinda just heard me fucking crying from the balcony one night. I don't know why I was crying, but I just was… Maybe because it was because I was literally just giving up on my life at that point, or maybe shit was just too much, but yeah, I was crying, and well, with my voice being the way it is, the way I cry is kinda hard to miss."

"Didn't know you cried Bannon." Itami said dully.

Bannon had snickered in some response: the way Itami had thought of her had always been interesting. "Oh I do, I do. Hell, he was banging on my door because he thought like, some guy was beating up a prostitute."

"Is that really how you first met?"

"What? You expecting something else?"

"I expected, like, I dunno, more horses." He gestured toward her Stetson.

"You stereotyping prick." She had spit some of the phlegm in her throat on the ground before she continued. "Shit, well, he just sorta wanted to see if I was alright. I said, yeah, I was okay, and he told me upfront that I was lying."

"Pretty direct when you're talking to a crying woman, don't you think?"

"Sometimes being direct is all you need, and Cam is usually good about that. Besides, how do you think you're supposed to comfort a woman in distress?"

"…You leave her alone?"

"Sure, that's an option, but it sucks Youji."

"Well what did Cam do?"

"Hold me till morning and all that. I think I threatened to throw myself off the building at one point… probably why."

It struck Itami as, at first, odd, and then horrifying, that Bannon had been suicidal once. Of course loose lips sunk ships, and he had questioned whether or not it was right if he actually talked to her as she came under the influence.

Not that she had given him an option.

"In the morning, he didn't leave my side, even when I told him to go and git'. Oh god, I was so mad at him, but he just told me upfront, "Lookie here Miss, your stomach was growling all night and I ain't letting you off without treating a lady to a meal."" Bannon had tried to fully imitate Masterson's serious swagger in that voice.

"What did he do?" Itami asked.

"He took me to a Waffle House." She said fast.

"What…?"

Her fingers opened as she listed. "Then he took me to a water park, then to the park, then bought me a dress the next day to go out to a restaurant, then to a ranch he used to work at to break in some of the new horses, then… then…"

"Sounds like it was a fun week."

"Best damn week of my life." She seemed distant, Itami had noticed. Then again this week, or the last six months for that matter, hadn't been exactly providing contenders to that week. Her hands had been constantly fidgeting, as if reaching for something that was beyond the grass, the air, the hat, and all things that Itami could observe. "I thought he was doing that all out of pity, which was why I never called him after all that time, but… well- fuck, I wish I could get that time back."

The older (barely) man had smiled as he considered what he felt for another woman. "You guys care for each other so much it reminds me of me and Risa, really: that ideal of love that I have."

"Hrmm?"

"You love him."

"No shit. Course I do" Bannon had almost laughed, but kindly. "But you try declaring that kind of stuff in the open, here. It digs into your head, forces you to remember that you became invested in the life of another as you're doing away with hundreds of others only because they're on the other side."

"You also constantly worry about them." Itami had continued to Bannon's surprise. "You want them to have a good life with you, at the end of the day, and you can't help but feel slightly selfish for keeping them to yourself."

"Eh." Bannon had doubted in earnest. He might've been talking about Risa or Chuka, but she wouldn't understand. "Cam, he told me once, we're all looking for love. We are. But what we don't know is that we're looking for our love, for our specific type of love that we share with someone."

"Then what do you have with him?"

"Why am I telling you?"

"Because I feel like you deserve to tell someone. I know you can't tell the rest of the squad because it's frowned upon. I know you can't tell Kay because he won't understand completely."

"Why should I tell at all?"

Itami had shuffled his own form as he got ready to tell of his intimacy. "Me and Risa, we have a counselor that tells us saying what we feel out loud is really good for a relationship."

Bannon's mouth was held open for but a second in disbelief. "Get the fuck out," she said softly. "You two went to a shrink?"

Itami smiled, expecting Bannon's response as he rolled his head. "Not because we were bad at the time as a couple, it's just that we kinda were married pretty snappily, out of the blue… We wanted to make sure if it was going to be something, we saw help."

"You wanted to be a good husband, huh?" There, for once, was an approval behind Bannon's whispers.

"To her? Of course. I've known her all my life and nothing can take that away, not even divorce papers or an alimony… as draining as that may be."

Bannon had seated herself back more for a second. Even when divorced Risa and Itami were very amicable. There was no lie, no padding, no sourness in something so pure. For once, Bannon thought, Itami sounded like a man.

"Cam, he doesn't complete me, no, but, well-" her grip involuntarily shifted to the Stetson. "He makes me feel comfortable with who I was. That I wasn't really alone in what I dealt with for years. He understood, he understood…" Bannon's voice had grounded as she struggled with herself, finding the words for an answer to a question she never thought she would be posed.

"Understood what?"

 _ **"Waking up from the American Dream."**_

Itami held his head back, thinking about what he knew of that dream. The entire world who knew America had known the dream of their people at the very base: the stereotypical 1990s life of a two story house, a white picket fence, the nuclear family and a dog.

He himself had gaffed at that idea once or twice. He wasn't meant for that sort of life and thought it nothing more but a fanciful ideal that came from national rhetoric.

But now, he realized, after talking with so many Americans, becoming their friends in this new world, that, even though it was a dream, it was also a standard.

A standard which many Americans had failed to attain and had suffered because of it.

"We can't all have childhood romances, can we?" Itami tried to lighten the mood, and it had elicited a chuckle from Bannon at the very least.

"I'm sure Risa sees something in you most of us don't. Now stay still."

Ever gently Bannon had leaned into Itami's side, dozing off, not minding the shoulder Itami had provided. The man couldn't argue as his stiffened form relaxed with a woman on his arm.

He had opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came but a squeak which Bannon recognized. She had shuffled casually, but not removing herself.

"Did you know how long I was homeless, Itami? For five years."

"Uhrhm. Kay told me something like that, but I don't know much else."

She had nodded her head. "Yeah, I was. I got married at twenty one, divorced at twenty two when the Chinese bubble popped. It took me five years to ever consider joining the military. Half a decade on my own in the back of my truck."

"You certainly look well now."

"Mmm. Perhaps." she had said tiredly. At her very quietest did her voice take on the sound of somewhat normal. "In those five years, I could never afford to pass up a warm bed, no matter how that bed was warm."

"…What do you mean?"

"I'm used to… nights like this, you understand? With men I don't know underneath stars I don't recognize." she had said in some familiar shame.

It took a few moments, the barrier of language that English had with him present, but it all broke away once he remembered his fellow SFG members. He remembers the day after the completion of training: men on top of the world gone into Tokyo and buying bodies to keep their beds warm the night after in celebration.

Bannon had known what that was like on the other end.

"Warmth is warmth to me, Itami. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I'm sorry." he had said, quietly, for having Bannon explain herself.

"Cameron?" she spoke his name with a fond tone, the sound of it pleasant to her own ears when her voice was not grainy. "He lets me feel something more, and I love him for it like no other."

"I see." Itami responded softly, staring up into the stars as his unease went away. "I think I understand now. No biggie."

"Besides, apparently battle buddies used to huddle for comfort back in north eastern Afghanistan during the nights."

"But you're not my battle buddy."

"Well I'm not your enemy. Now shut up and sleep."

* * *

 ** _D-Day + 64_**

* * *

The Special Task Force had breached and cleared the Officer's House early in the morning. By lunch the entire place was cleared out, ran upside down in the name of evidence.

What they found had been damning, but no stranger than what the Marines who had been to Iraq had seen in Baghdad after the final battle for it.

Two dozen bodies of the worshippers of the God of the Harvest: their cloaks taken and used in the attack. A letter imprinted with the seal of the Fromals. A shrine to the gods of war and combat.

If evidence constituted guilt then Delilah had been guilty as sin. Guilty as sin of being ordered by Princess Pina Co Lada, via the Fromar Household, to assassinate Noriko. It was in writing, it was in blood, and the bodies that had once again accumulated on Arnus Hill had been a testament to that effort.

What happened next was simply the systematic response to an insider attack. A road trod on by the Marines for years since the Obama Administration.

The men in black had been accompanied by JSDF and Marine MPs altogether, the Marines having warranted this response: fully armed, fully prepared for another fight.

"We have confirmation that all the Rangers are gone?" Beckett had throated into his headset as the Little Birds that his operators were on had circled the castle, numerous Humvees surrounding the castle. No one in, no one out. A few of the maids that had tried to step back in immediately, as politely as angry Marines could, ziptied and put back into the castle as the security teams breached the castle.

"Affirmative. Half are at Crety, other half are egressing towards Schwarz." Although they hadn't realized it, the Rangers had been playing as the watchers of the Fromars by just being housed within the keep: the finger on the pulse of the Fromars.

Beckett had to admit, Emerson had run a tight enough ship to make sure no real funny business had happened underneath him or his squad during their tenure in Italica. His Rangers were professionals he could respect, and he could've only hoped that RCT3 had fallen under that same influence.

For the second time in its history, helicopters had laid siege to Italica as the police towers had been full alert.

* * *

 _ **The Special Region – Italica – The Fromar Keep**_

* * *

"Assassin Actual to Grey Fox Actual, how copy?" Sevson had asked for the CIA Operators. He wasn't briefed as to who they were, but he had been given their callsign and Pierce's word that they were in charge of this operation, and with that, he had only assumed who they actually were.

"Grey Fox Actual, copy clear Sevson."

The Marine Major had only been offended for a second as his name was uttered to refer to him. The CIA spooks however, they were beyond such regulation.

"We have the Formar Keep's perimeter locked down. MPs and Rory's police are searching for the maids not on the property. We're waiting on your go Grey Fox but the JSDF are trying to pull us off of this."

Wherein one perimeter was formed around the castle by the Marines, two others had formed: one had been of the JSDF, surrounding the Marines, the other had been the citizens and Rory's MPs that had come out to watch.

The JSDF had come out to deescalate the situation that the Marines had responded with. The second that Delilah's doors had come down and the evidence was put before the feet of Marines, this was the response that was warranted after decades at war.

Overreaction that the JSDF did not appreciate, but wanted the Marines to stop as officers on both sides argued, papers and orders in hand and no way in hell they would back down.

"Keep them occupied Sevson." Beckett had yelled out into his radio, he using his hand to signal to the Little Bird pilots to touch down in front of the castle.

They had landed as if they were in combat, and the eight or so operators that Beckett had brought had certainly seen their fair share.

Heidegger had come from the Force Recon, Chuck and Roger former SEALs, the rest plucked from American SOF and, in two cases, mercenaries. The rules for being a SOG in that world had been changed, and at the end of the day Beckett had been the de-facto CIA Station Chief of both Tokyo and the Special Region.

He needed men that did their jobs well.

The Little Birds had dusted off, their job done and their passengers where they needed to be. "Heidegger you take lead, sweep the building and bring them to the basement. Subdue any Fromar and staff you see and get anyone that isn't us or them on the main floor only."

The blonde, former Force Recon Marine had nodded as he had raised his rifle, his right hand up in a sweeping signal pointing toward those grand doors.

They went one way, Beckett went another: toward the Marine stockade.

Sevson had greeted him personally as his Marines were looking both ways, shouting and yelling over them all. He had been as tired as Pierce, the gunfire from Arnus Hill seemingly reaching out all the miles to Italica, across the Corridor.

Word from the top down, to everyone's ears, was that Delilah had tried to murder a Japanese citizen and she had help from throughout the Corridor for coin or other promises.

Delilah had been something of a good representative of the people in the Corridor, and in the times they lived in for one to speak for the many, was for one to also be able to cause the many to be blamed for. Some had felt Delilah had sold them out on some objective that no one had known about. Some had been fearing the Hell that had been supposedly been taken out on the bunny warrior to be placed on them (that is to say having their legs ripped off and shot if Ryolu was to be believed).

Sevson's face had been the human equivalent of a Rottweiler's: angry, but rightfully so as his eyebrows bordered a scowl he did not mean. That widened face had tilted as he looked at Beckett walk up to him, the CIA man dropping his face protector.

"Do you mind telling what in God's name is-"

Beckett bypassed any sort of pretense as he pointed out to the Men in Green. "JSDF. Give me three of their MPs."

 _"What?!"_

The CIA Agent pointed again, his other hand still around his MCR. "I said give me three of the Jap MPs, should keep this ruckus down."

Sevson had threw his arms up in the air "Sir, I'd be happy to oblige but our golden boy is back: Lieutenant Yanagida is among them."

Mitch had been long used to surprises at that point in his life, but this was something new, something else. Of course who was he to doubt the tenacity of a man? He had survived Dubai after all.

"How the hell is he up and walking so fast?" Beckett knew the answer, he just wanted to say it aloud, to make sure that Sevson hadn't been screwing with him.

"Man is mad as hell. Is all."

And that was all there was to it as Beckett leaned over Sevson's shoulders, over the Marines, and looked at a familiar man with a crutch and fire on his tongue.

"How the fuck did he get out of the hospital and this far out already? Doesn't he knew he was just stabbed in the hip?" Modern technology of course had been the answer. It was only a flesh wound after all, and men and women had suffered much worse while still being able to operate, whether out of stubbornness or the will to go on.

The CIA spook and Yanagida had locked eyes and that had sealed his decision. "Whatever, just get him and a few other of the MPs. Send them inside the castle."

* * *

Sergeant Major Freeman had taken hold of the Marines that had already taken stock of the situation inside of the castle, some of the Marines reluctant to hand over the maids to the men in black. Regular GIs in the military had seen, on occasion, the spooks of the agency, the special forces which acted on their behest. They simply existed, supposed to be unacknowledged by anyone else who saw them.

However here they were now before the Marines, ordered by them above the purview of rank, but rather agency.

Freeman had been a sun blasted man from New Mexico, he having grown a brown goatee during his time here in the Special Region, that goatee framing a mouth that had been yelling constantly at the maids and the staff of the Fromar Keep to keep their heads down.

The Marines MPs that had went in had gone in with balaclavas even, hiding their faces from the Fromars.

"Don't look at me! Keep your heads down!" One of them had yelled, barely muffled by his mask. The MPs of New Kabul and New Baghdad had often worn such coverings, to shield their faces, to deny whoever was beneath their boots the view.

At some point, somewhere down the line between the September 11th and the end of the War on Terror, those that had waged that conflict had ended up not only otherizing the enemy, but otherized themselves.

In the end they took after people like Beckett: the Men in Black.

When push came to shove, the Marines had remembered this as they shoved maids down onto their stomachs, the staff of the Fromars onto their knees and with their hands behind their heads:

Those that welcomed them today, that opened their arms and waved and fed and let themselves be fucked, would, maybe, dance on their corpse tomorrow.

"Where's Myui?" Beckett had asked for, fiercely, having walked in after squaring away his deal with the JSDF. On his heels had been those JSDF responders, faster than he expected.

His men had started to pick the maids up after they bound their hands with zipties, dragging them up even as they cried, they asked and begged to know what was happening as they were led to the basement.

 _ **"Where are you taking them?!"**_

It was Yanagida's turn to yell at an American, bandage padding underneath his pant leg and his crutch being held by his other arm. He hadn't the time to use such a thing as he limped along, a wound on his outside thigh with two JSDF MPs with him.

"Down stairs." Beckett had turned with a precision, an aggressiveness, which had stopped the footsteps that approached him. He wasn't any more imposing than the Rangers, or any other special forces operator, but it was how he held himself that had made Yanagida freeze as who he yelled at took him up, and put his chest out to him. "I'm glad to see you're on your feet so soon, Mister Yanagida."

"Mister? That's Lieutenant Yanagida to you-!" The Japanese lieutenant had been at the front of the two MPs that came with him, bobbing his head around to try and find a name, a rank on the black and grey attire and equipment of the man before him.

He didn't know who he was.

"Who are you?" He stopped in all frankness, almost in a disgusted allure.

Beckett had rolled with the role he had been assigned to use ever since he had been stationed in Japan. "Military Police. Attaché to General Chigurh Andrade, USFJ."

"What is your name?" Yanagida stressed, his growing anger barely suppressed as he mentally grappled with who he was standing before.

"Beckett. Mitchell Beckett."

Yanagida had reeled himself back. This man was different. Different from Itami, he fought in a different way against him, and he was no slacker obviously. Different from Emerson, he was an older man, a man who hadn't gotten caught up in the wars that came to him.

He was, with his men, different.

Dangerous.

"Why are you taking these people downstairs? To hold them prisoner? For what?!"

There were papers in Yanagida's hand, but it was no bother to Beckett as he turned back to Freeman. "Wherever Myui is, keep her away from the basement and keep her complacent. Same goes for your Marines. _**No one**_ goes downstairs."

"Is that an order?" Freeman had tried to dare the CIA agent.

" _ **It's a warning**_."

The way Beckett had said those words had meant something to Yanagida. What they had meant was that, if he was an extension of the law, then American justice was about to be enacted.

American justice distinctly.

He looked at the bottle of water in one of his pockets, used for the painkillers that had made any movement of his bearable.

The captured staff had all disappeared downstairs at the gun point of the SOGs, leaving Beckett behind as the Marines looked on like a circus crowd at the man in black and the JSDF.

"What? Are you going to yell at me, Yanagida? Going to tell me how I'm doing things wrong? How you JSDF would do this in a much nicer, much more humane way? Perhaps just a table meeting with someone who barely knew Delilah and a few shakings of hands and smiles?" Beckett had pressed in, steps toward Yanagida suddenly numbing the lieutenant's leg in a way that pain hadn't been able to.

"Mister Beckett." Yanagida grit through his teeth as he tried to step back. "I fully realize the magnitude of what is happening here today, _Delilah stabbed me_ , so I want to get to the bottom of this no doubt, but this is all needless overreaction by you! You're scaring the daylights out of all the people here!" His arm outstretched to the doorway leading to the basement, papers ruffling as he still held onto them.

And yet Beckett stepped further still, chest to chest, chest touching chest as he smelled what a man who had been stabbed, shoved into a hospital, and, above all, took his first life within the last twenty four hours smelled like.

"Tell me, Lieutenant Yanagida." He said huskily, his palm put to Yanagida's chest as he pushed him back, the two other JSDF MPs with him at a loss for words, their own feet stayed as they realized more men like him were around them. "What will you do with the guilty, if you find them? If you see them downstairs? Will it be as easy as killing your first person? Was it easy? You think you can make this little, oh I don't know what to call it, show, work out with how you are right now?"

Yanagida had been disgusted as he heard the words first, only seeing the man who had shoved him back last, hands in his pocket as his eyes looked at those high ceilings. Blackburn's Seabees had gone to work in there and helped fortify the structure after Italica.

"Who are you to judge? What the fuck are you doing?" he answered back, anger brewing. If the Americans had to give him shit, it was now of all times: a time where they had no right.

Beckett didn't answer, not as he looked back to Freeman, his Marines looking on in some mortified curious. "Mister Freeman, I have a delivery of sandbags inbound any moment now. I leave it to you and your men to bring them in here while also apprehending any other staff to the Fromars. Yanagida, and you two, come with me."

Being almost intimately physical with people had often been a show of authority for Beckett, so he had pushed himself past, almost through, Yanagida as the other SOGs followed down into a door leading to the lower levels of the keep.

The JSDF had no choice but to follow.

Beckett was no white rabbit, but down the hole they went.

"When Delilah took those orders last night this Land of Milk and Honey became a Land of Wolves."

"What do you mean?" One of the MPs said as they continued down the steps, LED lights installed providing bright to what would've been a dark and damp environment.

The Seabees hadn't installed them however: the basement, past a certain point, had been the playground of the Rangers.

With the new and improved luxuries of the Special Task Force set up in Italica alongside the local economy booming back up, the cellar space had become underused following the occupancy of the Rangers. Emerson, being as astute as he was, motioned for some of the rooms be repurposed for Hitman's benefit.

A firing range in one room, a kill house in another, electronics and equipment in one room for Loke to play around with, and so on and so forth.

One room that the Rangers had kept clear however had been one that they knew they had to keep, only because of the world they worked in: the dungeon.

"No matter why Delilah did it, who forced her to do it, it doesn't matter. She proved that we are vulnerable by stabbing you and Blackburn. She proved that we have flaws in our etiquette here."

"At the cost of thirty co-conspirators! I think they learned their lesson."

Beckett had stopped and turned around, an accusing finger raised, but his voice was leveled into an almost deceptive calm. "Of those conspirators, none of them, according to our interviews being conducted at this very second, held much ill will against us. Sure, there might've been a former legionnaire or two, but they lived here and sucked from our tit. And yet there they are, taking up a blade _**for her**_ _**against us**_."

"They might've been coerced." The MP shot back.

"Do you know how much an insurgent was paid by the terrorist groups over there to attack us? I know the going rate in Baghdad was eighty USD to attack a US soldier, five thousand for a kill. I think that'll properly coerce any man with a blade in this world in the Corridor, especially since we are using the American dollar as a base."

The MP's eye twitched. "Well who knows why those people did it?!"

"Well I don't know about you, but a dead American is a dead American to me, it don't matter why that trigger was pulled." At the end of the hall was the dungeon, two of the SOGs ready and waiting, guarding the door as the sounds of the staff were murmuring behind it.

The door to the dungeon was opened and they had all walked inside, the Japanese feeling as if they were dragged in on leashes. Their feet had told them to slow down, to not keep pace with these strange men, but they did not and they walked in their footsteps.

The dungeon was one fit for a town the size of Italica, pre-rebuilding. It was large, enough cells to store a tavern if one so happened to break out into a brawl. Enough space in the middle for any guards that would've been to easily mosey about out of arms reach of any prisoner reaching out from the bars.

Along the back wall had been the maids and the staff, all of them being forced by lethal suggestion. On the opposite side had been the people who had given that suggestion: coming to sit on tables and chairs as if relaxing, albeit with fingers on the triggers.

"Why are we being held like this Yanagida?! What's going on?!" One of the maids had yelled out, her tail alert and up, her claws drawn, even while bound. It was Persia, her sleeves rolled up and the spot pattern on her fur revealed. She might've been like a domesticated cat to some, but she had the blood of a leopard.

The beast maids had always been more perceptive of the people around them, just by having the blood of animals within them, so they had seen Yangida's limp and weariness as he stepped in. Something had happened, and above it all, it had happened to him.

However they noticed something else, something intensely familiar in the way the leader of the men in black walked. The swagger, the way his breath left his lips and the way his eyes traced each and every one of them without effort.

They'd seen that walk and talk before.

 _ **They lived with it.**_

Yanagida didn't lie. "This is for our safety. Persia. There are more of you here than us now and, and…-"

The lieutenant couldn't bring himself to say.

But one of the MPs he brought with him had been more willing. "We believe an accountant of the Fromars, Bartholomew Poyea, has stolen an official seal of-" Beckett had grunted once, interrupting the MP. That wasn't what was important. Delilah and Parna attacking Arnus Hill's sanctum and who ordered her had been two different subjects.

One had a punishment already set in stone. Another was yet to be fully investigated.

"The bunny women known as Parna and Delilah led a band of raiders within our base at Arnus Hill and attacked Special Task Force personnel. That is why we have you all down here like this." Beckett had said it in English. He had learned enough languages in his lifetime, that and he couldn't be assed to bring himself down to their level.

 _"Delilah and Parna did what?!"_

 _"Those damned bunny whores! We never should've taken their like in!"_

 _"Bartholomew, what did you do?!"_

Half knew, half didn't and eventually in that mass of twenty so people, jammed against each other by a stone wall, had thrown one out two them:

The PXs had provided the modern clothes of a businessman, so perhaps it felt weird to the JSDF that an older man was cast out with a suit vest and pants, a white handlebar mustache disheveled by his treatment as the Fromars had all so willingly sold out one of their own.

"According to debriefings of the surviving raiders, Delilah was given an official order from the Fromars to assassinate a Japanese citizen from Princess Pina Co Lada. We have these testimonies in writing and we found your finger prints on the kill order." That was the purpose of the papers, Yanagida throwing them down at the man as he still on the floor, old bones keeping him down.

His prints were there and in ink, the faces of those that gave testimonies having been taken from their mugshots.

Yanagida had kneeled down and picked the man up by his collar. He almost regretted being on painkillers at that point. It would've been nice to feel the pain.

"But Pina was hoisted on a cross and condemned by the Empire following the Earthquake, so there was no way she would've given a stupid order like this." He throated hard.

"What the hell are you talking about?" the old man groaned as he was lifted up by Yanagida.

"Who gave you this order, Bartholomew. If you answer me I promise you will be given a fair trial by Japan's order of law, not Rory's."

"Why would I ever conspire to hurt you people or portray the Fromar family poorly? I've served them for years!"

"Put him down, Yanagida." One of the MPs forewarned. The considerations of a Geneva Convention existed here still. A consideration of course. There had been a table in the room that some of the SOGs sat on, they waiting patiently.

Yanagida did not however. "Listen to me! Right now you are a coconspirator of over thirty deaths right now! Delilah murdered that many people to get their garb! Last I checked murder is met with a likewise punishment by Rory."

"I didn't kill anyone! And you can't prove shit!"

"We have your _ **fucking**_ finger prints!"

 _ **"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! You fucking Japanese are all liars and small dick hypocrites! Just like the Americans say!"**_

"He obviously doesn't plan on talking, Lieutenant Yanagida." Maybe, in another world, it would've been the JSDF saying that to the Fromar maids as they beat the same man to death for his silence and lies. Though this wasn't that world, and Mitch sure as hell hadn't been acting on behalf of the Japanese government. "You're just wasting your time."

Yanagida knew Beckett was right as he felt a wobble in his left leg, the pain slowly returning from hoisting a man up, but he had looked into the man's face and saw all that he needed to. Without the evidence, without the blood, without the personal injury he had sustained, he could've known that this man was guilty just by the look on his face when confronted with a force that meant harm:

He was guilty as sin, and Yanagida couldn't do anything about it supposedly.

Just like how Beckett wasn't supposed to be there.

"The City of Italica, as a self-governing city state, and it still is in the eyes of the international community, has not signed any papers of our laws and rules of war, gentlemen. So go ahead, throw that punch, from one MP to another. I won't judge."

Beckett was no hypocrite. He couldn't be when he didn't hold any self-imposed mystery on what he had to do in his job.

So, setting the man down on his feet, Yanaigda had felt that anger; that propensity to hurt someone that went beyond war and military service.

He wanted to hurt him because he was in the wrong, and he was in the right, and no one had the right to call him out on it.

He had forgotten when his first curled beneath his waist, he had forgotten when he had let the man go to stand on his feet, but that fist had raised up in a resound thwack before the two other MPs had known what was happening.

Soon enough that man was on the ground with a blood nose.

Soon enough Yanagida's boot had been raised and came down again and again and again.

A hand from one of the JSDF MPs had touched Yanagida's shoulders hard, but he had only turned around.

His eyes had been cold. "We have Rory executing people in broad daylight! We've killed thousands of people! And you're gonna pretend that I'm not on their level?! _**They would've probably just beat the shit out of him too!"**_ A hand had darted to the maids and staff, silent as the stone around them as they saw how civil the JSDF could be.

The sound of a boot coming down on a form of a human was a sound that normal people would never have to hear, to identify, but no one there had the right to be normal after it all.

The sound was a blunt one: of the rubber on Yanagida's sole finding dampened impacts against the man's shoulder side, the sound of a shoulder blade cracking finally eliciting the first screams.

Screams of a man filled the room as the SOGs simply looked on as Yanagida beat a man half to death.

One of the MPs, torn between inclination and what was right had looked worriedly at Beckett, the man's face without emotion as he nodded at him.

"If you people want answers, then go ahead."

"Tell me who the hell you're working for and I'll stop!"

Lips had fluttered, as if talking, but unable to vocalize sound until an invisible glass wall was cracked. It was the sound of resentment and resistance.

 _ **"Can any of you just talk to us like human beings?!"**_

"Of course, but I don't want to waste battery." Beckett had said fast in response as he sat in his chair, and only moments later an almost digital voice rang out as he held a finger on the side of his neck.

 _"Sere noro pereve altiliuvuru."_

As was the norm with special forces, the SOGs had gear that wasn't common place with the rest of the military, and that had ranged from the disc-like speakers that had been on a wire wrapped around their throat.

The Operators had spoken English, and the devices on their throat had translated seamlessly in a machine like emulation. In the private sector these devices had been in use with international enterprises, real time translating software having come to a head in those last few years, but Falmartian was a new language and it was only fit that the CIA used the first rendition of the technology here.

" _But please, sir._ " It was the Head Maid of the Fromars. An old woman. Almost as old as Bartholomew or any other Victorian-esque maid. "If you would please just allow us to clarify our stance of what is happening here, to recollect ourselves, we can aid you in this investigations.

"You don't get to assist us in this way, ma'am." Beckett had ground out, his translator unable to translate the contempt. "Delilah was the head of your little spying game and we have a headcount on how many staff from the Officer's House took part in the attack. The entire Fromar organization is underneath our microscope right now."

"We don't even have correspondence from Princess Co Lada! She only talks to Itami or Emerson!"

"You have correspondence from the Imperial Capital at least if this order is anything to go upon! And if that is not the case you have forged a letter from Princess Co Lada and it is the Fromars that gave the orders entirely!"

"But we don't have correspondence from them and we don't gain anything from killing Noriko!"

"And yet you gain something by spying on us? I don't get your _**fucking**_ game, lady."

Every period in every sentence Beckett had spoken had been ended with a scream from Bartholomew, the JSDF beating the life, or the answers, out of him.

But he had no answers in reality.

He was just the middleman.

And for that he would pay.

But Beckett knew better. Needless suffering was hardly something he sought. Part of this was discovery, the other half was work.

Work required tools, and he had dropped them in Yanagida's hand expectantly, pulling him off. "I think you can put two and two together. This'll… quench a certain thirst."

A rag and his hydration pack fell into Yanagida's hands. Those items had been a suggestion. A suggestion which Yanagida should've brushed off, thrust back into Beckett's hands with the idea that he and the other men in black with him were simply Military Police or Pierce's security.

He did not though, not when the man was numbed to the pain, Yanagida dragging his boot across his shoulder to put him on his back, he wheezing as he felt the sharp pain from that shoulder come alive again.

"Tell me who gave you those orders, Bartholomew."

"Or else you'll what? Give me a drink and wash my face?!"

And Mitch had simply stood by as the Japanese had pulled out the old trick, as if they were going to impress him.

All this time Bartholomew had still be ziptie'd, his hands held behind his back as he was forced onto the ground as flat as he could, water splashing from Beckett's hydration pack onto the rag before being applied to the man's face. As the man's gasping became muffled, it became entirely hidden by the running of water over his rag covered face.

Throughout his career with the Agency, first in the Middle East before several CIA spooks had been whacked by the insurgent cells, and then in Pyongyang before the Korean War rebooted, torture was an art he had to partake in for the greater good, as Langley had often told him.

He himself had gotten results. Enough drugs, bamboo, rusty nails, and people buried alive in coffins had usually helped him in his occupation, but this old trick was one that the CIA had often referred to as "vintage" an old trick from an old dog that was still as applicable today as it was in 2001.

It was the trick that Beckett had held close to who he was, as absurd as that sounded. In the end, after the sleep deprivation, the covering of shit in their cages, and the thousands of other things that he did to those who fell under him, it was this particular technique that had got him the information of a three story building in the middle of a Pakistani neighborhood.

The CIA had little wiggle room for such acts anymore. The wars had taken a toll on the Agency almost as hard as it had America, and, in the last, literal sense in context with the CIA, Beckett was the final connection from one era to another.

Across eras though, the old saying still rung true:

 _There are fates worse than death._

Before the accountant had known what was happening his world had turned to black underneath the fabric, and then it had gone to the depths of suffering as a stream of water was slowly, meticulously, drained over the man's covered face.

The maids had looked on, unspeaking. They too had suspected Bartholomew, the snippets of information they had gotten from the operators detailing why they were all there had pointed to him.

They would've beaten the truth out of him, but to the SOGs, this was him being made an example of what they really were capable of, even if it was through the JSDF.

The before and after was needed though to truly appreciate it.

The other MPs had uneasily went to his legs and held him down straight as they could as Yanagida began. The first few seconds were fine, mysterious in nature to Bartholomew. The cold dampness that went through the rag first had drenched his face before it started to pool over the crevices where fabric rested over opening.

That's when the leaking started, the drip drip drip and then constant stream of water.

It went through his nose of course, clogging that in its unkind sting before he tried to breathe through his mouth. But he couldn't. Not when the water pooled in such a way that seemed impossible until now:

Head and body held back the water had rested in this throat, unmoving, staying there like a weight as what air in his lungs were thrown out trying to expel the liquid in his system. Some had come rocking out in a geyser from his mouth, through the rag, but it was replaced soon enough as more water came.

The drowning torture was another name for this, and it was literal: the act of keeping someone at that very point where all they felt was perpetual drowning.

It was known by another name though. An unforgettable name that had been associated with America as much as Ronald Reagan and McDonalds were: Waterboarding.

The accountant was convulsing madly underneath the grip of the two MPs, the look in their eyes dead as they fought with themselves and what they were doing. Americans were hated throughout the world for doing exactly what they were doing, and yet, knowing this fully, they were doing the same thing without question.

But they justified it. They were getting answers.

They weren't torturing a man. They weren't holding his body down as Yanagida poured water into his lungs. They weren't making him suffer.

 _ **They were just getting answers.**_

* * *

 _ **manifest destiny**_

 _"I've said to the people that we don't torture, and we don't."_

 _US President George W. Bush, on torture of suspected terrorists, 2006_

* * *

 _ **"Where did this order come from?!"**_ Yanagida had yelled at the man over and over, every time a geyser erupted from the man's face.

 _ **"Where did this order come from?!"**_

 _ **"Where did this order come from?!"**_

 _ **"Where did this order come from?!"**_

 _ **"Where did this order come from?! Answer me!"**_

One of the maids stepped forward as the rest looked on horrified, Beckett getting up out of his seat to meet her.

"What is the meaning of this?! Are you enjoying this?!" The maid's answer was a backhand across the face that sent her to the floor. The surprise that writ itself on the rest of the maids and the staff had painted them white and silent.

These men in black, they walked so much like the Rangers, smelled so much like the Rangers, the beasts and the humans had not seen them as any different.

Persia had been the one that took the punch, she bowed down on the ground in shock and pain as she was forced back by the suggestion of Beckett's foot.

One of the black masked operators yelled out. "Why do you care? Huh?! Are you with him?!"

"Oh that's what it is, isn't it?!" Another joined him.

"Hey, you two. Easy." Beckett had finally spoken up as two his SOGs barked at Persia, he walking back to his seat. He might've punched her, but he wasn't about to waste his breath.

Persia's hissing from the ground had come alive in a sharp shrill sound, the fur on her arms raising and her tail going rigid as she had pushed the two SOGs away. Beckett had warned them, and now he had to waste a breath as the maid lunged at him.

Even with her hands tied behind her back, she tried to physically lash out. Beckett couldn't help but be impressed as he had used his rifle as a club, swinging into Persia's charge and breaking her onto her back.

"You've got some spunk Miss Persia, no wonder you've actually stepped up and are screwing one of Itami's men."

"Don't you dare talk about Kurata behind his bac-!"

As the JSDF had continued their session, engrossed in the act they were doing, whether out of denial or morbid realization, they did not fully see Beckett ball a fist and deliver a punch to Persia across her face, silencing her.

"I'll talk about whoever I want to, Miss Persia."

He didn't hate her for lashing out. He didn't hate anyone anymore. No one had deserved his anger anymore, because that anger was never used in a way that was right by his standards. It never was.

The hit had hurt, that much the blood filled spit that Persia had sent up to Beckett's face had said.

Though she played stupid games, and got a stupid reward.

He beat her face in, again and again, the steel ball bearings in his glove's fists making sure each hit had broken something, his other arm barred against her throat as the man kept pummeling.

"Come on, pussy cat, tell me to stop!" Beckett had yelled into her face, her gaze gone limp as her hearing was hollow. He had looked up to the maids and the staff. "Any of you! Tell us to stop! I dare you! _**I fucking dare you!**_ Tell me that she and him are innocent of this spying! Tell me that any of you are without blame and I'll blow my brains out right here!"

There would've been silence, but in the end the only thing there was was a gurgling of a man trying his best to escape the drowning.

* * *

Persia had been kicked back into the group of maids and staff, some of them willingly chaining themselves to the wall in complacency. It was clear at this point what they all wanted to hear and see: _**the innocent don't resist**_.

Persia had a fang chipped from her beating, her senses and numbed and dull in a groan and ache she had never felt before in her life as the first feeling that returned to her was the drip of liquid from her own nose: the warm sickening feeling of blood erupting from her nose, as it felt like her mouth was shattered.

Her own gagging and coughing in pain had joined the cacophony of an example being made.

"This is how it starts anyway. Isn't it?" Yanagida had said darkly as he basically rode the man: sitting on his stomach as he continued to trickle down on his covered face. "How you get the people to hate us, for them to form states and groups meant to end us. I always heard it was your CIA that started ISIS in someway or another.

The SOGs had barely flinched at the name of the agency.

Beckett had known what Yanagida was inferring to as he cracked his knuckles, returning to the other side of the room as Persia coughed up the pain in loud hacks. "ISIS doesn't mean shit to us, Yanagida. It was so easy to call it just, ISIS, Yanagida. It was so easy to just group every single group of Islamic terrorist and insurgent under that banner when we went to war."

"That was your mistake. You provided the conditions necessary to let the group grow."

Beckett couldn't help but agree with the lieutenant's observation as he wrung out the rag over the near lurid face of Bartholomew, a white froth coming over his lips before being smothered again.

"ISIS as we knew it? When we went back there it was just a shadow of what it once was. We had bombed them to Hell, but they never died. The only people left to pick up the pieces were those that lived there, in Iraq, and from the corpse of an Islamic State arose dozens and dozens of groups that were born from the same hatred and malcontent against America and her coalitions that had spawned ISIS."

"It was a mistake to start that war. It wasn't a mistake to make them pay for their transgressions." Yanagida rationalized.

"We called them all ISIS because it was easy. We went in there to fight a single monster, not a hundred. The same way we're grouping them all as just Imperials right now…. Besides, we're not the one interrogating at the moment, are we?"

"Fuck, Yanagida, _what are we doing?_ " One of the MPs had said. He was an officer above the rank of Yanagida, but he was lower than him at that moment.

This was personal. The old sayings always had merit.

" _ **Where did this order come from?!**_ " Yanagida had made the basest question, the only one that they needed answered as he ignored his comrade.

At first the man didn't realize what was happening to him, but that had been the trick to the act of torture: it came from within, not from out.

* * *

Half an hour. That was how long it went on.

In the business, Beckett knew, that these sessions went on for days, years even, in the most devout cases, but that was only because the people that America brought to him had expected it and had been numbed to the idea of being tortured.

He could tell when a man was breaking, and Yanagida had making it prolonged longer than it should've been. This process was a routine that needed to be done right, else it becomes just a messy, reckless foray into a trial and error checklist that he had gone through before.

" _ **Enough.**_ " Mitch had said simply, the man garbling, fighting, all the way despite being drowned time and time again.

The bag was heavy, but it sounded shifty, grainy.

This was a technique his team had used before they all died in the sands of a buried city.

Same principle, different technique, different application of the smothering substance.

He spoke English as he dragged the bag over to the man, his mouth frothing through the towel as he laid his head on his lap. "Amateurs." he looked up at all of them. "Do you even understand what it's like to be tortured?"

Beckett had given an ultimatum: the man keeps suffering until more information was given up.

But the JSDF were amateurs, and, although it was still excruciatingly painful to Bartholomew, it wasn't productive.

There was such a thing as productive pain, and Beckett had excelled as he touched the shoulders of the JSDF softly.

"You're time is done here. We'll handle the rest and give the information gotten here today over to you ASAP. From there this investigation is yours."

The other JSDF MPs had been more than glad to walk away, before they realized what they truly were doing, their fists balled white, finger nails digging into their palms as their nerves barely sustained themselves.

Their clothing had been as wet as Bartholomew, and, on some measure, they suffered the same indignities. They had tortured, and he was the one being tortured.

This was the path they had walked on and desperately tried to scamper away from.

Yanagida knew better as the last of the water had been dropped over the accountant's head in a giant splash.

"No way in Hell I'm leaving this up only to you."

"Why not?"

"Because we have an obligation to dictate the procedure of what happens here. These people are under the jurisdiction of Japan."

The justice of Japan. The responsibility of Japan. The mistakes of Japan…

The dare, the challenge of men who fought with policy.

Beckett accepted.

"You want to play hardball Yanagida, alright, we'll play fucking hardball. Shake my fucking hand." The request had come hard and fast for Yanagida, so he had grabbed the man's hand, but the grip that he received was beyond cold. It was petrifying as Beckett stared into Yanagida's eyes, spare glasses on his face. "You gotta tell me straight in my face if you accept the consequences."

"I accept."

Beckett shook his head in disappointment, but keeping the grip. "I didn't even say them yet Kiss Ass."

"Fine, go!"

"Yanagida if you say a word, a speck, of what we do in this room here today, _**I will end you**_."

* * *

 _Yanagida. I know your record. You and Itami were in the same class at the National Defense Academy, and you were the salutatorian and you gave a damn good speech about how your fellow classmen had to be as strong as they ever had been in order to shake off the oppression of American chains for Japan to find its own way in the world._

 _It was a good speech and I don't believe a lick of it, but that's beside the point._

 _Point is with enough padding you can be painted as a nationalist who joined the military because you wanted to fight us: the big bad Empire._

 _Let's say in five years, after we're out of this region and another group of soldiers is in our place, cleaning up after our shit, you suddenly want to go back on this agreement we might make and start spouting on a forum or with a journalist on how we, and I won't sugar coat it, tortured these people to get them to give up what's inside. You start making a stink about it, hell, maybe a few news stations might catch on. But by that time we catch wind you broke our promise._

 _You know what we do with people who break promises?_

 _…_

 _I'm sure you can imagine. Maybe your brake line is cut. Maybe your house blows up because of a gas leak. Maybe a two bit Yakuza gangster puts a bullet in you when you're withdrawing cash one day. I won't personally be the one with the knife, the gun, or the hammer, but I'll be the one who made that promise and gave that order._

 _So tell me, with all your heart Yanagida, if you break the silence of what happens in this room, break my promise, are you willing to be just a right wing nut who, tragically, one day, dies because of a freak accident?_

 _We are men on a mission like no other, and we are not to be tested or underestimated. Do not try us._

* * *

"Don't let the door hit your ass behind you." Yanagida had offered no response from the taunting Beckett, and nothing had come after the slam of the door closing. He had his taste.

A taste was the only thing, he rationalized, that he wanted to have.

Best to leave this to the professionals: the Americans who knew how to make people feel lesser. Let the men who knew evil do their evil things so good men like him could sleep with himself.

Beckett had walked around the room, right in front of the maids, as he saw the walls of this cellar, converted into a training space for the Rangers. All the gunfire they sent downrange here, zeroing their guns and training their target acquisition had not been heard upstairs. None of the maids had noticed.

No one would notice now.

This cellar was still preforming its assigned duty. The Fromar Keep was a keep, after all, and the criminals of the town needed to be kept somewhere secure: chained to the wall and left to rot.

"The clamps on the wall. Chain yourselves if you haven't done so already.. There are enough." Beckett turned around, motioning limply with his gloved finger to the assembled party and the walls.

The remaining unbound had rattled in resentment. "You think we'll honestly just chain ourselves up like some petty criminals?"

"As far as I'm concerned _**you people**_ are. The way I work is that you're guilty until proven innocent, and even then I'm a lot more generous than some of my people who served under me."

"But we didn't do anything."

"You're guilty by association. Read it and weep, but don't waste my time." It was a Colt Python which Beckett had slid out of his holster. It was gear that was grossly out of standard issue, but it was his revolver, having survived Hell with him.

Its finish was sand blasted, burnt; wooden grips charred. In the end however it survived, it still worked.

He thumbed back the hammer as he held it at his hip, an eyebrow up, still waiting for them to do as they were told.

"Why are you doing this? We've never done anything to deserve this!"

Beckett rolled his eyes as he looked at the Head's protest.. "Nice to see you're including all of your employees in this plot."

"Yes, I admit, for the safety of the Fromars I sent maids into the Corridor to spy on the Special Task Force but I-"

"Admission of guilt. Chain yourself up or I blow your brains out. You've lived your life."

 _ **"If you could just let me explain-!"**_

The sound of a .357 caliber gunshot in such close quarters had been almost as painful as being shot to the was the most painful thing that resulted from that gunshot, the bullet having hit the stone wall behind them and shattering that brick.

The medusa maid, Aurea, had trembled, eeks uttering out of her mouth as she shook, her snakes vibrating in their own fear in this senseless affair.

" _I don't get it with you fucking people_. I tell you to do something in your language, and you don't do it. I expect better from people who served lords and kings. See, the thing about Arabs, Muslims, if you've gone so far to understand where we come from, is that they always respect the power to destroy. I thought you, residents of Italica, would appreciate the power us Americans wield and why you should be listening to us, but I'm mistaken. Roger, Chuck?"

The two CIA operators had taken the cringing Head Maid as she kneeled, hands at her ears and hearing that distinctive ringing no doubt, her gaze distant as she was chained to the wall. The other maids getting the point, even at gun point.

Beckett had a point however. Playing bad guy was never always the CIA's go-to option, putting any persona at all was a failure of planning and operation that required CIA SOGs to go into the field. Where they had gone however necessitated a certain kind of evil that had been painted onto the CIA in a self-fulfilling prophecy.

He didn't remember who, or why they did, but Beckett remembered the very first peoples to invade Afghanistan, so long ago: The First Persian Empire, five hundred years before Christ. After so many years in the Middle East he had learned the history lessons of the ancient civilizations that came before them.

Controlling Afghanistan was not a dream just for the sake of dreaming. Controlling Afghanistan in terms of geopolitical power meant controlling South-East Asia, the trade routes during the times mankind flourished in the Cradle of Civilization. The Persian Empire intended to control Afghanistan for that reason, and they did:

They went in there, as Beckett recalled, _**"With, not promise of ability to conquer the people and the land, but the intention to do so, and they did."**_

So Beckett had come here with the intention to get what they wanted, by any means necessary; to make known the capacity of punishment able to be wrought, not against warring armies, but men and women who would wrong them, individually.

One of the SOGs had opened up again, a wheelbarrow full of sand bags brought in. Beckett had motioned for one to be brought over and opened, a knife slicing it open and revealing its gritty contents.

"What's that?" the mouth of the bag was opened and the viewers had seen what was within as Bartholomew's question had been answered.

Mitch had answered as he ran his hands through the substance, the tan, gritty substance that dug into his skin and became a part of him. "Sand from _**Dubai**_." he spoke of a memory.

He spoke of the storm wall. He spoke of a failed mission to bury the evidence of American failure. He spoke of a crazed colonel and the soldiers that were sent in after him; a guerilla war waged by his team by aiding the populace kill themselves.

Officially in the blacked out records there had only been thirty four survivors pulled out of Dubai as the US Army made one final sweep of the dead city after a distress signal was sent out. Only one of them had been acting on behalf of the US government, the rest civilians who had weathered the storm and the collapse. That person had risen in the ranks to mold America's new special forces.

However unofficially there was another survivor. A man who had seen Osama bin Laden hunted down. A man who had been the only man in the CIA to understand the war in the Middle East absolutely and survived the internal purging in the agency.

That man had carried the taint of a Middle East here in a way that Pierce's Marines could not.

Perhaps it really hadn't exactly been sand from Dubai, but it gave the grittiness, the same horror in how it was used. It might as well have been. The sand that coated Dubai at that point had been the same sands that blew all the way across the Middle East and drowned the dream of peace in its grit.

"Death is not a promise, it is a luxury, in torture; interrogations." the man had tried to jerk away but Mitch nearly broke his neck as he had kept him still on his lap, sprinkling his face with the particulates. "Drowning him gets us nowhere. But how about dipping his body in acid? Shaving off the layers of his skin with a heated scalpel? Digging out his fingernails and making him breathe salt? It's not death that makes people talk, it's having death look at them and promise them that it won't come without pain."

The man was dropped to the ground as several more CIA operators had appeared from the dark, each of them taking a foot forward into the light as Mitch stood over the accountant. The operators had dropped further bags of sand at their feet: a seemingly endless supply as more men in black came from nowhere, the maids disturbed beyond words as they bore witness to one of America's greatest sins in the twenty first century brought out again.

"The Rangers would not allow this!" Persia had yelled out from the wall.

Beckett had only looked up at her as they prepared, his jaw clenched and his face contorting in an almost understanding way.

"Sweetie, the Rangers are capable of everything I'm doing, _**and more**_."

"How do you know that?!" Persia screamed out at them.

 _ **"Because I was one."**_

His head was again lowered as one of the CIA operator's began, Mitch keeping him in the grit as the contents of the sandbag spilled over, his arm in a lock as he was brought to the floor and held there, two of his fingers gone into the man's mouth and forcing it open.

As that was happening the remaining SOGs had picked out, at random, maids and staff, unshackling them and proceeding to perform the same with them. Those that remained chained had the bags put over their heads to blind them (or, perhaps, to make them extra aware) from the horror.

The concept of sandboarding was something this world had learned today as a man was buried alive from the inside out, his head smothered with the contents of the sand bags.


	37. 2-16: Fetch Quest

A/N: I can smell the slowburn filler chapter reeking from this chapter.

I want to say I don't like writing torture scenes, but then again, I take pleasure in knowing not many people do them. I guess it's more of a pride thing. Sorry for any uncomfortable feelings stemming from that of course, but this story is based on making you feel uncomfortable.

 ** _Screwthis -_** I see you've gotten on that "What the fuck is Lelei's deal" train too. I'm impressed people are picking up on it in general.

 _ **Axcel**_ \- Look, we all like to imagine that every time a Special Ops team goes out they do things 90 degrees, straight line, by the books 100%. They probably do reach for that. But for everyday grunts? Look to Faust1812 and his story if you want a pretty spot on replication of what it means to disregard that code and conduct in idle moments. I'm not too worried about my radio discipline portrayal, mostly because I'm self aware enough that I know it's being stepped on at times.

Major Simi - To be honest I could probably be a better writer if I focused on those nuances: the culture and economic clashes, isntead of the heavy handed stuff I do (such as the torture). Thanks for the kind words. Xavier Rall pretty much sums that up: I don't pull my punches.

In General - Perhaps I made the Maids guilty by association just because it was a reckless thing to do, and you may all pick up on those small things I try to do: Make people reckless in their decision making. Perhaps the most obvious piece of this is the Luger, but I like to litter mistakes all over the place just so I can say "hey, that can be a plot thread later".

Anyway, read and review, Dragon takedown in four~ chapters.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-16**_

 _ **Posted on 10/6/16**_

* * *

Tea.

The sort that smelled a bit like tobacco leaves and sweet, warm to the nose, the senses. Inviting, almost. A hint of Vanilla and perhaps a generous pinch of sugar had been Bannon's preferred inclusion into the tea she smelled.

It was Rooibos.

She remembered drinking it her entire life, her parents having acquired the taste by living in that dead state they ran away from during the Cold War: _Rhodesia_.

Her grandparents, to the best of her knowledge, had been English lords of some sort in Rhodesia during its day of British ownership. When independence was declared they had bankrolled Ian Smith's country.

When it all came tumbling down they took their money back.

That was the secret of the Bannon's family money; at one time the money which Bannon had grown up and used in all of its millions.

She had made a million on her own however now. She was ready to get rid of that heritage; pruned like a dead limb from a tree. Some could remain though, most namely the tea that had gradually awoken her.

That smell of tea had, given how she fell asleep, consummated with the smell of Itami. It wasn't exactly a kind smell, but it was a smell she had been used to regarding men. Still the lieutenant had been kind and he had deserved, as Bannon shifted him for his weight to be held by the side of her bike, a quick pat on the cheek before she had done anything else.

It was that pat that had stirred Itami awake, one eye open first in some slow start up. Bannon had gone and put a hand on her rifle as she had crossed Itami's over to him.

He groaned, his nose audibly sniffing as he smelled what Bannon smelled. "I didn't wake up in England, did I?" he sloppily said in his best English he could muster, a hand wiping at his face, only for a finger to gesture toward an ammo can put in front of them: on its side.

The ammo can hadn't been what had been odd however. It was the two cups of tea on it in two used tin cans from the food already eaten, the whispers of steam emanating from them, two tea bags providing what was undoubtedly the smell of the morning.

Bannon would've sat up fully, look over her bike and ask who had been responsible for that. It was a remarkably thoughtful thing to do, in her opinion, as Itami had put on a glove and touched one of the cans.

"Fresh." He observed, taking an experimental sip at the drink that usually only Bannon and Lelei sipped at.

Before Bannon could question, the answer came.

The answer came flanked by Doc and Lelei, and although Lelei hadn't show much in her face, Doc had made up for it with an impression of sorrow that burrowed through his blue eyes and made them cold.

It was the look of failure.

"Good morning father!" Chuka had been her ever cheery self. After waking up was she at her safest: when her subconscious mind didn't grapple with the shield that she had put on her that had accepted Itami as Hodor. She had naturally leaned down and embraced her father, and as the two hugged it out in the morning Bannon had only looked silently at those who followed her.

Lelei, in a rare show of uncomfortableness, had looked away from Bannon's gaze as she held her staff tight, the 9mm round around her neck with a necklace gleaming in the morning light.

Doc had looked exasperated, his hands constantly moving as if wanting to form words with them, but eventually settling as Chuka separated from Itami.

Lumaban had rounded with Poindexter, Wilbur also tagging along as he had muttered to them, sharing that same dreadful look that Doc did. "There's a saying in Arabic." Yao was on his arm as she realized what he was going to say. It was a phrase he had taught her before when dealing with the people that denied them help in regards to the Flame Dragon:

It was a saying that made clear the guilt in people's eyes.

A saying learned from his time in the Middle East and Africa, clogging burning oil wells while trying to find their replacements.

"What?" Lumaban asked.

 _"What you hide in your heart, is read in your eyes."_

Bannon could hardly comprehend the whisper as her own eyes told the story of her soul as the events transpired as they did.

Suddenly Chuka's grasp had been around Bannon's waist, a smooch pressed to her cheek as the Ranger was caught off guard and Itami's gaze widening.

There was a reason for this show of affection though. It was the same shock that Itami felt when he first heard Chuka call him father.

The trapdoor beneath Bannon's form had opened as she had instinctually returned the hug, her words failing her as Chuka spoke with much love:

"Good morning, _**Mother**_."

The bike fell over as Bannon recoiled back, Itami going as well as the entire pack had seen the fear in Bannon's eyes take over that morning.

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart – The Old Arunn Kingdom – Outside the Labyrinth**_

* * *

The horses of Falmart were beasts I could appreciate beyond words. They didn't complain when the eleven of us had packed ourselves on top of them and got them out to graze and for some water.

They had complained less than the females I had in my group, but they had a reason as they huffed behind their gas masks: kept on them by the fear of turning into something we had to put down.

To think that our idea of procuring transportation had been horses had created some odd serenity in our minds that reminded us what year we operated in: two thousand or so years before our own, comparatively.

I, perhaps, was not the best to speak for the Special Task Force, but we assumed aspects of this world on our skin. The wolf head hoods, the pelts, the signifiers that we were knights of Italica and the Rose Order, had existed on top of our gear like the decorations of the Legionnaires we killed to claim that right.

The refugees, Pina, the MPs, us; we were the people in the middle: between an Empire and a Special Task Force.

So we rode our horses while armed with our carbines and rifles, on this quest to appease the people of Crety so as to foster cooperation.

There was some quaint feeling that came with me and my Rangers just trotting down the dirt path as the great gardens of the Old Arunn Kingdom came into view over a hill. Cam had been all too willing to vocalize that feeling.

"You know why I trained for the Rangers, Kay?" he said casually as he brought his horse up to trot with me, the rest of our men following closely behind, those who shared a horse having their passenger ready their rifles as we stopped at the crest of that hill.

Below had been a forest that I'm sure the elves would've been impressed with.

Chuka had always talked to me kindly, as if kin, but I could only write it off as her still painting an impression of me as a Dark Elf. Not that I had any say about it. I fell into the role easily, even if the tips of my ears rubbed against my helmet more than I had appreciated.

"Yes."

"Well you see," He had kept going as if I said no, bringing my binoculars up and down upon the forest and the very blatant sprawling stone complex within its center. "I grew up idolizing the Texas Rangers, you know, the original frontiersmen of my state. They protected the original Texans from the evil Meh-hicans and the Injuns."

"Really now Cam?" I said, still looking through my binoculars at the not-so-pretty picture I was looking at.

"Naw. Just kidding." He leaned over, taking out my e-cigar from my admin pouch, lighting it, putting it in between my lips as a sign of him not being serious. I knew he didn't mean it anyway, but the smoke was a nice touch. I only took a momentary pause to glance at the man and all of his Western glory. He looked the part of the people he idolized. He kept his back straight as he rolled his shoulders, the reins of his black horse firmly within his grasp. "As a kid, I was always led to believe that the Texas Rangers were the first men to properly see Texas as it was meant to be: in all of its awe and splendor, seeing that big blue sky and the plains below."

"Even moreso than the Indians Sergeant Masterson?" Tony implored.

Cam nodded at that, without a doubt. "The natives been on that land for centuries before us, knew it before even my ancestors planted their heels before Santa Ana. You live in a place for a long enough time you tend to forget what makes that place so great. You forget how easy it is to see it gone, to see it burn, to see it sucked bone dry."

"Are you really claiming to appreciate the land of Texas better than the natives?"

"Yes. And no beatnik Indian better tell me that I could never appreciate the land as much as they do. That land is my land as much as it is theirs. It's a fuckin' state of the union, ain't it? Besides, you think every fucking Chickasaw is any better knowledgeable of what's going on with the land than the average American?"

"God, why do I keep you around Cam." I muttered, purposefully letting him hear it.

"Because you love me and my purty voice."

"Oh right, because Sergeant Bannon is out hunting dragons." I answered myself after the fact as he chuckled, the tones of our voices falling into that serious that we needed.

"What do you see Kay?" He asked.

"Forest looks to be about twenty miles, square, there to there." I gestured to the edges of the trees before us, most of the squad confirming with a nod or a general affirmative noise. "Structure in the middle reads maybe four hundred acres by my guess. Big motherfucker."

He had nodded thoughtfully for a second before he discarded his gloves, bringing his hands together in a rather elaborate fashion, bringing his mouth up to a hole made with them:

The whistle that came from his hand had startled the horses, just barely, but soon enough the more outdoorsy of my chalk had recognized it as a bird call. We all looked out again at the forest, but hardly a branch had moved, hardly an iota of evidence toward a forest that was alive.

"That being said I did learn that from a Chickasaw."

"What?" One of my Rangers asked in some disbelief.

"When I ran away originally I holed up with some Indians up the 35 near Davis. Stayed with them a bit. Two summers worth."

"Right," I remembered frankly. _**"Dohosan."**_

In Native American vernacular, to my knowledge, that meant liar. "Little Bluff" otherwise. Masterson had been given a new name by the Chickasaw Nation for a period of time.

"Orders captain?" Omar asked behind me, his horse stirring a bit as it looked down below.

"Keep pushing through. Pears gotta be in there somewhere if I know any better."

"Do you know any better?" Another of my Rangers asked.

I rolled my head a bit in consideration. "Yes, generally. I know that Lelei and Cato have a garden in the Corridor in which they grew the local produce for their own magical things. I know that we can just order up a flight from the airbase and have them drop what we need right here."

"And why don't we do that?" Peters deadpanned in his question, Khan draped like a bag across their horse's back in his usual absentmindedness.

I had gestured with my hand for the rest of the group to follow as I led my horse slowly forward, down the hill. "Source of this damned thing might be there. That and we might as well do some forward recon on this thing, not like we're going to forget such a place."

"Of course, if it were easy why bother?" Masterson had sarcastically went on.

"I mean, we're technically still part of RCTs, right?" Tony stated the broad inquiry to all, most of it being returned with shrugs and ehs. My Rangers hadn't really bonded with the other RCTs as much as they had with RCT3. Obvious reasons of course, given Itami and I's rapport and the general things we shared in experience.

"It's not like we're gonna see, like, I dunno, a bunch of fucking Imperials in those walls, just waiting to ambush us."

"But what if there is?"

"Have they given us any trouble before?" I didn't need to ponder the question running through my team as they responded in their own way: a dismissal there, a reminder to never underestimate the enemy otherwise.

Loke was prone to getting stabbed, and asides from a few cuts and bruises and bludgeoning from Imperials during the early days of this operation, as far as I knew, none of the Special Task Force had been grievously injured.

Of course, all this minus Bannon and her loss of her eye.

We had bucked up collectively, and the gap between us and the Empire was widened even more.

That bucking up had made us, inadvertently, silent. It was the silence that we held that made us uncomfortable, awkward, if not anything else.

We weren't supposed to be here, having casual conversation, while out on duty. That's not who the Pentagon wanted us to be: talking of life, the cultural and political ramifications of what we were doing as we, in perhaps an all too conscious sense, knew what could've been.

Maybe it would've been better for us if we were just shooting Arabs or the Chinese.

At least my thoughts wouldn't have wandered as such if I had been back at home waiting for China to try some stupid shit.

Only now I was worried about our horses losing their step as we made our way down the hill: a singular dirt path that led into the forest painting our way in.

I was half way anticipating to keep going down that path with little trouble until the forest was now level with us and the horses had brought their senses to bare on it. One by one they all had stopped just short of entering the affair, much to Masterson's detriment as he held his reins tight.

"Come on you lousy bitch. Ain't that scary." As much as Masterson talked down on the horses, I doubted he would've fully persuaded the creatures from going forward. I didn't even need to tell him to stop as I disembarked my own, taking my ruck off of it only to tie it to a nearby tree.

I had grown fond of the horses here in the Special Region.

They were relatively free of the plight of Imperial politics, and as far as I knew the Marines always spared the horses when their Imperial riders were either subdued or killed. Then again horses were simple creatures with simple needs and simple uses…

Minus of course that one completely sentient horse I met in Akusho.

Very friendly fellow, helped Foulke's horse, otherwise known to me as Foulke, adjust to me being his owner.

Seyton and Samnu probably were taking care of my steed as far as I knew.

"Don't you know the old belief Masterson?" Sanders had went on as she disembarked her own horse, taking her ruck with her and shoulder her rifle, Hauvsbaum doing the same from her passenger position. "Horses know when stuff is funky."

Khan, on the other hand, had been dead silent: ears perked up as he looked into the forest with scanning eyes befit of wolves. He was better at handling whatever the horses had sensed.

Masterson had spit at the ground before his horse before relenting and patting at his animal's neck. He didn't mean nothing by the language, just how he was raised. "Horse was always a tool in my neck of the woods, Mia." He started. "Spaniards had the right idea when they introduced them to America. Gotta listen to a man, otherwise they're useless to me. And right now they ain't listening."

Pragmatics asides, Masterson knew he couldn't fight nature as he disembarked and got his rifle ready. "Orders captain?" Tony had asked, tying his horse down with a generous amount of rope.

I couldn't see much through the brush, but I knew we had to move forward. A simple proposition as long as I thought of ourselves in a fucking Elder Scrolls game.

This forest however, it was odd: from a distance one would assume that it was grand enough for an enclave of elves to have taken up residence here. Up close however, I didn't think so.

The bark, the leaves, the wind, the very fact that it felt very sterile there: this forest was alive and dead at the same time. It was an unnatural state of being. A walk in the woods this was not to be as I did a brass check on my AR.

These trees had trunks as large as the red woods of California, but sickly and strung together like mutated poles.

"Tie the horses up, we push forward, make it up as we go."

Masterson had nodded at the side of my vision as he snapped his fingers, pointing for those who hadn't gotten off to disembark.

"Suppressors on. We gonna do this shit as by the books as we can."

 _"Because doing a fucking fetch quest is by the books."_

The horses hadn't enjoyed being tied down, constantly whining and ruffling against their bounds, but they had meant something by it. A warning perhaps.

* * *

The unmistakable form of a coffin had manifested itself against this outcropping of walls we had approached as we made our way through this forest, joined by more and more copies. I knew the maneuver to an extent though: the eeriness of having bodies literally line the walls of a compound of medical sort tended to keep onlookers away. The more maniacal wizards often employed such scarecrow like tactics.

The problem here was stated outright by Cam.

"All these coffins and not one body in them."

The women had all tightened their masks even further at the reminder of what, exactly, had been awaiting them if they took it off. It was a reminder for us men as well.

"Masks on." I ordered swiftly, our masks out again and quickly sealing our faces tight.

Still even then Masterson kept his worn Stetson on. He bent down to one of them: the traits they all shared being, disturbingly, they had been open. Running a finger along the inside, dirt collecting on his pads.

"Broken recently."

Judging based on how the doors and lids to the coffins were bent, they had been broke from the inside out.

"So you said that this Arunn Kingdom tried to use longevity magic and what not?" Sanders asked in disbelief.

I answered bluntly. "Ah, things of that nature. When the lights are out the lights are out, however the corpse can be made perfect again… it was a certain liability of a certain ilk at the Capital apparently."

There was something more left behind however. No two coffins were the same with their left-behind contents: faded sheets, beads, candles and waxes given to the dead for their sake. Some of them had a bag of coin in there as well, the ones left in their mouths having tumbled out and back into the coffin.

"Put it down Cam." I had hurriedly told Masterson to place a doll he found within that broken coffin back where he found it. He had spooked himself into placing it back in as soon as he could, a loud sigh muffled.

"That's the running theory, right? These people came as Romans?" Peters asked, Khan staying between his legs obediently. The gas mask did nothing to hide his deep voice.

"Unofficially." I responded once, tiredly. "Not like my college level Latin is helping me any."

Sanders had snorted. "It was an easy language enough to learn, this Lingua Franca."

"Try becoming an Imperial, Sanders. Different case then."

"Well it took you about a month to become an Imperial icon of sin, can't be that bad." She shot back.

"Kay changes himself very easily, y'all should know this already."

Wasn't I diagnosed with a bipolar disorder before I got the okay for West Point? I tended to not remember that hazy period between that day at Syracuse, graduating, being lost in my thoughts between psychiatrist visits and advising from those who wanted to employ me.

"I forgot what my shrink thought of me officially, but she said I had a problem about thinking of myself as a good person after he beat the shit out of me."

"How the hell do you have that sort of problem?" Hauvsbaum had asked, the pragmatic, indifferent New Yorker in both of us connecting at that moment.

"I still don't know man." I relegated. I really didn't know why I became who I was. I told myself that it was a problem everyone had however. The only difference between them and me was the fact I had gone to a shrink because of it.

My favorite Texan spoke up. "Right, John told me you were a nerd once. Valedictorian and all that good stuff." I still wanted to be a politician at the end of it. That's what I told myself as all my online assignments at the college I was attending over their online program had been dangerously wandering into 'never going to be done' territory.

Perhaps Cam had reminded me of that for a good reason.

"Look, I'll tell you what I told her: I had a long time to think about why that fucking professor beat the shit out of me. Realistically, he was just drunk, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but my head man, my head…" I lowered my rifle for a second as I looked up into the trees and the rays of light that came through the leaves. "I thought he beat me because he didn't like me as a person. I thought I deserved to be beaten."

Omar had winged my back with his elbow as he pushed forward. He knew that this was no time to get mopey, and I had agreed as I snapped out of it.

There was also another reason why he pushed forward. He was, in lieu of Loke's absence, our pointman for this mission. He had the refinement to do so. "Footmobile on our twelve. Non-hostile?"

We heard it: the ruffling of leaves, the patter of slow footsteps.

We took a knee as we heard what Omar heard, he taking his boonie cap and tilting it forward, blocking the sun from his eyes as he looked forward to confirm what he reported.

He raised his fist up in a ball as we all habitually fanned out.

If this was contact, it was calm.

And perhaps there was a little overreaction as, on this dusty path, a woman came hobbling forward in her petty pace.

The clothes of a regular woman here. Neither exemplary nor exceptional. Just a woman. A regular woman caught alone in an apparently bone dry, infected forest. Sure, the blouse she was wearing was low cut, her hair unkempt, but she was par for course as far as they went. She was pretty.

Perhaps that was part of the inadvertent trap as we raised our rifles slowly at her. She moved like a doll on strings, slowly, without reason, and limply. Though she was alive in a sense.

"She what I think it is?" Tony had leveled his offset sights on her.

"Yeah, she is, Private Rockwell."

She wasn't more than a few yards away from us, spitting distance. She opened her mouth as if expecting a meal from a hand that wasn't there, and we saw her dry tongue, dry teeth, pestilence from the inside out and the sandy groan of a woman that was not there.

If I had known the hearts and minds of the Empire, I suppose I had some idea of their souls, paying tribute to the gods that governed this world. They were real, I couldn't doubt that as I did back in our world, and if there was some respect I had to show, and I had given my piece already, I knew I had to pay that respect.

Perhaps it was that reverence and fear for the gods and their apostles that had made faith so important here: it was real.

My hand habitually went to my belt, fumbling inside a small pouch filled with thirty aught six rounds, the bullet themselves rounded down due to the nature of my rifle.

Not the one of polymer and aluminum however.

My Winchester had been propped in a scabbard along my hydration pack, it going out smoothly.

"Stand back." I ordered, one round going into the Winchester as I had flipped the gun one way, my fingers in the loop, cocking it by gravity.

 _"And here we go."_ One of my Rangers sarcastically groaned. I could feel Masterson's eyes burning into the back of my head, but I couldn't blame him.

We had this discussion once: about our feelings about killing. It didn't matter by the time we had that discussion, weeks after Ginza as we trained to go past the Gate for the first time. He had been used to putting down the suffering, the cattle and animals in the Texan farmland that still existed and had been saved by his parents, but he had more concern for me.

A concern that I was capable of killing too easily, and I knew it, and I had fallen into the easy grooves of making the act of killing a business I wanted to partake in.

I once thought if I had to kill, it would've been in a place and time where all other options had been expended and it was the only action left to take on.

It was a belief I still held to today as the words of an apostle and a prayer echoed in my head and silently fell off my lips.

 _"Emroy, please lend your power to save those who have strayed from nature's laws. Liberate this soul, suffering inside this abomination."_

Her eyes were dead, so I felt nothing as I held the rifle level to her head in one hand.

My own sight had flickered, between pulling the trigger and the boom, the flash of the shot. When it returned to me the body had been on the ground like any dead body should've been. The blood however, was odd. It was red, but much paler than any I had seen erupt from a human body.

I think I would've been a good judge given how much I had drawn at that point.

I let the rifle fall, my fingers around the lever still as it cycled.

"Ain't Hardy supposed to be the one stopping this sorta shit from happening? You know, keeping the dead dead?" Masterson had brought my attention out of it, a breath I was holding let out as the Winchester went back into its place. He had a point he found. He always did.

My Rangers turned around to see the, within context, clean mess I had made. Her head had burst into a neat pile on the ground, her body flat against its back on the dirt ground.

I had went for my shirt pocket, my lighter there alongside the e-cigar. I didn't light up actual cigars often, but a lighter was always handy to have around. "Cam, take five men forward for recon. We'll meet up with you after we deal with this body."

Masterson had been ambivalent as he looked at the corpse and the way forward, his rifle across his back, as he nodded considerately. "Copy. We see any more of these… things, we pop 'em?"

"With extreme prejudice."

Cam had lived for this shit, I knew. He loved operating more than he let on in some machismo self-relegation to the art of war, and seeing as they were zombies, he couldn't argue. Not when the double barrel shotgun strapped across his back was brought out, the man checking the shells before flicking the safety off on his M4. He pointed to five of his men, Peters and Khan included.

"Five meter spread. We advance till I say stop."

With little argument they had assumed their line and moved forward into the brush. With little pause between them disappearing had the first suppressed gunshots rung out.

Tony had whistled impressed, he being left with me, looking down at her body. "That was a real life, goodness to honest zombie… flesh doesn't look right though."

I knew what he meant as I knelt down, bringing her arms in from their spread eagle.

"I think they call this Death's Makeup, or Death's Kiss, something like that." I had drawn from what I knew of this particular syndrome. The Imperial Libraries Pina had let me roam certainly gave me an insight that I'm sure Beckett would've loved to see firsthand. The revelation to me during our trip back to Japan that he had been CIA was disconcerting to me, but still, I like to think he had been friendly with me when I knew him only as an MP.

"How much you know about these things?" he asked again, kneeling besides me as further gunfire went on. The rest of the Rangers I kept had wisened up and took a knee, covering their sectors.

"The Arunn Kingdom," I gestured up at the walls above the trees. "They were always one to test with the medical and magic fields as we know it. Empire conquered them about two hundred years ago in order to put a stop to that."

Hauvsbaum had grumbled through her gas mask. I knew her well, if only because we both came from NYC. She knew me from before my service even, if only because she had seen my face on the news report after Professor Jie beat my shit in. She had been Hitman's biggest woman in build, her hair cut fuck boy style, about as tall as me and Masterson. Despite her size she had been Hitman's designated sniper, Black only being the designated marksman. "I'm guessing the Empire didn't want this Kingdom to have a leg up on them, right?"

"Tony, go get some branches, would ya?"

"Yes sir."

"And Danielle, I guess the problem was more, as far as I know, was that the Arunn Kingdom was trying to get a monopoly on medical and longevity magic. Empire doesn't mind weaponized magic, Rondel was, historically, where their court mages and battle wizards were trained."

Hauvsbaum had considered my words for a second, she looking over her Mk13 rifle in some disdain. She had loved her rifle and was hard pressed for a force that could stop it (She told me once or twice Chris Kyle had been her inspiration for her trade). The harpy in Rory's MP force had used her own magic skills against our rounds to an effect and that always been a contention in the Special Task Force's combat effectiveness.

She was welcomed into the MP's force with much love however, but still, someone needed to have the balls to ask her exactly what she had practiced to stop our bullets from doing things to her.

Rumor had it, and the theory seemed to work, that she had offered some small amount of radio interference whenever she strayed near a set and had been fresh off of using magic.

Blackburn had come through recently in his ever diligent supplying of us, and as such we had our wrist mounted computer units back: communications and GPS devices which curved along our wrists underneath a protective sheath. Hauvsbaum had glanced at her own for a second.

"Ain't Rondel like, a stone's throw away?"

"Yeah. Over a river. Might be the reason why they didn't get hit with this shit, because I know Pina always got reports from Rondel regarding one of her knights: turns out she was a natural at magic."

Tony had arrived with the branches, I motioned for him to dump it over the corpse, playing with my lighter in one hand.

It was pretty clear what I was gonna do at this point. I was always good at using fire, all things considered: back home, during the riots, fires had risen from the Bronx as if it had been under siege. It was, I reasoned at the time, as I set fire to tires walling off the neighborhood from both the 101st Airborne and the rioters.

I try not to remember what I did in the hood much. Not much of me that I showed today had stemmed from there, but I knew the use of fire more than most, and I could recognize at least that from my past as I took a bundle of dried leaves and started that impromptu funeral pyre.

"Do you remember that wizard we had to confront during our last mission?" Tony had asked innocently, looking into the fire as it began, rose, and did its job.

I nodded thoughtfully, knowing what he was getting at. The wizard which had been buying slaves to test on had burnt the bodies of his deceased rather pointedly, turning them into ash before including them into further potions for further testing. When word had come that the Special Task Force meant to punish any owners of slaves he had quickly tried to burn them all, dead or alive.

The napalm employed by Rapier squadron during the Battle of Italica had introduced the Empire to something worse than a Flame Dragon; fire had been refined into a human weapon for a human war, and those that had survived it had walked among the Corridor, just thankful to have looked into the fires of Hell and come out alive, even with their skin and bones melted.

I overheard once, Mobius One, Lieutenant Colonel Noelle, belly ache to the Harrier pilots as to why there were any survivors.

He didn't want to see the broken forms of human bodies before him every day.

"Do we still have the White Phosphorus shells for the mortars?" I asked sincerely, trying to not think too hard about the pretenses of why we had to use them.

My Rangers nodded as the form of the flames took over the body of the woman, her clothes adding to the flame.

The sound of fire had been its almost silent cackle, ringing out through our ears as we saw this body burn. Italica's burning funeral pyre had gone on for days as the bodies were collected from its defense. It intermingled with the sounds of bullet careening into bone and branches further on, the suppressors on our rifles hiding their signature as intended.

"We waiting for something?" Wilkes had asked. He was our mortar man, a thirty something with a pirate beard like the Confederate generals of old. A civilized man who kept silent in most pretenses, a gruffness to him that harkened back to the old image of special operators who were the backbone of the War on Terror.

He carried our lone LMG: a MK46, a handle strutting forty five degrees up and right from the heatshield welded on by him.

I always thought of him as dependable, if not too involved with our squad's dramatics in this world.

His husband had been a stage actor surprisingly.

"Tony, Hauvsbaum, check our rear sector, everyone eyes forward." I finished off my order by raising my first closed before limply using two fingers to motion forward, our fox trot started, seeing through our optics with the flames behind us.

My earpiece buzzed. "Hey, captain, reconvene with us. We hit a wall."

* * *

Cam's literal assessment was not wrong as we put ourselves past all the bodies of women he had left behind in his advance.

"Why the fuck was Pina and them impressed by Tokyo? This shit's tall as fuck!" Masterson widened his arms at the foot of these walls. Perhaps no bigger than the city walls of Italica before the battle, but exaggerated by the trees around it perhaps.

A few of my men had poked to a large opening in that wall: the supposed entrance to the complex we had seen from the outside hills surrounding this forest, more coffins also scattered about. Dipping their heads in they were only greeted by hallways leading left or right, flanked by those same giant walls that left no secret as to their intent.

Still it was always good to confirm what, exactly, we were seeing.

"Sir, mind if I take a climb up?" Hauvsbaum had asked, slinging her rifle over her shoulder and motioning to a tree behind us all.

"Don't break a leg." I answered ambivalently, breathing out as I cocked my hips, Cam coming over to me. I shook my head somewhat frustrated as I tossed around the idea of what it was we were standing before. "Jesus Christ Cam, remember when we were being trained to fight in Beijing? Urban jungle and shit like that?"

"Vaguely. Why?"

"This shit here is probably one of them famous mazes."

"Wha…?"

Despite her size she had been limber enough to make the journey up, her bolt action rifle along her back as she climbed. Chuka would've been impressed, I know.

A lot of the conversations me and the elf had in the sparse moments we had been together had been lost on me, admittedly, but we talked about trees once: talked about where I grew up there hadn't been any. She talked to me about the types of trees, how a certain sort could be used for housing and housing only: filling out roles as nature dictated in conjunction with the elves of the world.

 _"Do you ever use those trees to get elevated positions on an enemy, say, like a raider?" I asked her once during lunch when Itami was busy attending to Rory and Lelei._

 _"Oh heavens no! The great spirits of the forests would never allow us to wage war from them."_

Danielle made it up there, shouldering her rifle as she crossed her legs on a branch, back securely against the trunk.

"You see anything Hauvsbaum?!" I yelled up at the trees.

She had comfortably adjusted herself onto the branch, her .300 sniper rifle brought to her cheek, draped in a flurry of camouflage netting by her own customization. "Yo captain! You know that thing with the minotaur and the maze where you can't escape because it's just too damned much?!"

"Yeah? Why?!"

"There's just giant fucking maze that's too damned much blocking us off from getting straight to the center!" The woman had gotten her phone out, taking a picture. As odd as it was the picture had been texted down the tree to me, my phone buzzing as I took it out.

Masterson leaned over my shoulder looking at what Hauvsbaum saw:

What Hauvsbaum was describing had been, classically, the Labyrinth. The Arunn Kingdom built it, to my knowledge, to keep any test subjects (or creations) from inside the place from escaping. It was a fair enough reason to build it, minus the human testing of course.

But then again I was in a place where sex slaves were currency and gladiators had their pick of them.

Common sensibilities, or, at least, my own, had been out the window as my mind dealt with the facts:

Between us and what we wanted was a Labyrinth, interwoven with the natural designs of the forest: hiding multiple plazas and the structure that had been the supposed laboratory in the middle.

Thankfully we were us and equipped with the right tools.

"Alright, Danielle, get down from there. I got a plan."

"Aight sir."

As Corporal Hauvsbaum started climbing back down I had made a motion with my finger for Cam to turn around, his ruck being accessed by me.

"You know, I was always a fan of corn mazes. I mean, I hate corn in general, but making mazes out of it was a great idea in my opinion." He went on as I grabbed a few black squares, no bigger than regular posters. We all had such equipment with us, if only because we were well equipped for our excursions, but we always found a use for modern tools in this world. "There's just something so satisfying in getting lost in fields and fields of vegetation for a five dollars a pop. You know, give back to the local aggie community and-"

"Shut up Cam." I groaned as I got the black squares up and into his hands. Hauvsbaum had made hes way back down, a school circle formed around me as I looked to the entrance and the start of that stone maze. I bounced the photo to the other phones of my team, they looking at it in some annoyance. "Alright. We don't got time to get lost, and I'm sure you want those gas masks off ladies."

"Damn straight sir." Hauvsbaum responded. She was always comfortable talking to me, if only because we both hailed from NYC. She was from Queens though. Not that I had a problem with that.

"Because we're not Pathfinders, we're just gonna keep blowing holes straight through this maze we got until we run out of boom or we get there. Anyone with the thermite charges or the C4, have 'em ready. If I know walkers like I think I do, we might be, well, you know, that zombie swarm bullshit."

A few of the squad had shrugged, some of them scratching their cheeks in consideration. I knew we didn't feel invincible outright, but there was some sort of rite of passage that we had gone through ever since Italica that had numbed us to the thought of any threat from this world: whether it be 20,000 men at Italica, a Flame Dragon, or the Empire itself.

Zombies were zombies, and if a gunshot was a gunshot to them then we'd be fine.

"What about that minotaur I'm led to believe that lives here? Seems like one would be in there." Peters had asked, Khan still antsy, but subservient. "I mean, assuming there is one… Do they exist in this world?"

I was the man to ask as I went for my e-cigar, cringing as I realized I had the mask on. "I ain't seen one in person, but I heard that Zorzal tried to breed a few of them a few years back as a personal guard. So yeah, I assume they are real. Probably ain't much worse than a giant troll though."

"You got a read on what it takes to take them down?" Sanders asked, her MP7 slung over her back.

"Well, if I'm going off a troll, and the Capital has a few in service with the defensive legions in case of dragon attacks, chained underneath the hills, explosives should work with highly concentrated gunfire." I fiddled with my M16's M203, sliding it up to see the round I had equipped in it.

A few of my Rangers had the handheld mortars slung across their back: capable of direct fire application if needed, the rest having bloop tubes of their own, the stand out being an M25 airburster carried by Sanders. To top it off our standard issue Carl Gustav launcher had been with Masterson, the man having a back strong enough to it along with his gear.

We were brimming with weapons to use and spoiled for equipment, but I suppose being SOCOM came with its perks, in this world and our own.

"So we good?" One of my Rangers asked, almost unbelieving.

"I mean, yeah, in theory."

"Shit, is it really that easy? Just shoot them?"

I rolled my eyes as I took off my helmet for a second, feeling my tipped ears. "In the arena, like, only two people I had to shoot ever gave me problems, and they were exceptions. One was a magic user, from the post battle reports I think Masterson and Harris encountered something like it during Italica: basically a force field was put up by them that stopped munitions. That kind of protective magic is rare, so that is that's caveat."

Gunfire never changed I knew. A bullet built in one world, fired in this one, had as much killing potential as a bullet fired on home ground. No laws of physics changed outright as far as weaponry was concerned, and weaponry had a way of existing outside the realm of reason.

"And the other?"

I shifted my own ruck as I considered for a second. Along with the Winchester, I admit now, one of the only other modern implements I had brought with Pina had been boots. The reasoning behind them had been simply I forgot to take them off when I was first carted over. "Golem. Rocks and shit. You can only kill them if you get rid of the life force that subsists outside of their body."

"What?"

"So basically you just throw fucking gems and crystals at them to absorb the spirit and then you smash them with your boot… the crowd was very willing to provide me the tools."

"Ah, interesting."

…

"Good conversation."

"Yep."

"Come on, let's get this done."

It was habit that we all rose our rifles as we moved into the entrance of the maze: left and right presented to those who dared go into this labyrinth. But we weren't just any who dared.

If the motto of Britain's premiers meant anything, who dared win, and I had carefully placed the square block with its thermite lining along a mansized shape. They all just generally stood at ease as I did so, a stark contrast to how we usually were when these things were used. Back during Ginza we had used them to breach through connected stores to take out the then entrenched unknown enemy.

"Come on kids, stack up. Gonna do this right."

With little argument they had all, reluctantly, stacked up against the wall both ways from the explosive, backing up as I did as I twitched my left arm back into the man behind me, the movement sent back down and sent back up in short order. When it came back up to me the clacker was squeezed and the routine boom wrecked its way through.

Stone and rubble thrown in or out, pulverized in a boom of concentrated explosive force.

I elected to be pointman as I shifted forward, rifle up.

I didn't know I could've been pleasantly surprised in it having blasted all the way through these supposedly thick walls, pushing through the dust and taking my position on the other side as we all flowed in like water.

Like a flower blooming, we had all assumed the bell shape, guns out: finding ourselves just a little bit further into the maze then the creator intentioned.

"Clear."

"Clear."

Peters had Khan were the last through, but the man had taken his sweet time as he stood in the middle of that gap, running his gloved hands along the edges: a slit in the middle present between sides of the wall. Walls were hollow, apparently.

"Eh?" I asked.

"Yeah, that seemed to work." Masterson had obliged, the squad loosening up. Only then did we realize the echo of the explosion had bounced up and down the walls of this maze. "Spooky."

I primed another one as we all stacked up again.

"Punching it." Another hole in the wall, another booming echo.

And so that had repeated itself for an uncountable number of times into the day, a tenuous process at the very least that defied what great challenge the creator of this maze intended for do gooders such as ourselves.

My Rangers talked as we made our way through.

"Do you think the creator would've been offended and shit about the fact we're doing this?"

"I personally like the idea he would be offended."

"Well he probably made it for a reason. Probably might be extremely taken aback that we're destroying this all."

"Nothing ever stays completely sacred. Time makes sure of that." We passed through another hole in the wall as I spoke.

"What you mean?"

"I remembered learning in college," I went on as we had casually breached that new hole in the maze, making our cheated progress. "Siege of Mecca, 1979."

"Never heard of it, Kay." Cam had said as he prepped another charge.

Not many people did. Mecca was still buried underneath the sand, as far as I knew, but still the Muslims of the world still went to their Holy City during Hajj, trying their best to dig up the Kaaba. Hundreds of expeditions by the international community, private ventures, and more had gone out to the dunes to try and reclaim Islam's holiest site. All those who went however were unable to uncover it, dead, given up, or bogged down by the sand.

The remaining, de-facto exiled royal family of Saudi Arabia that had survived the rebellions and the anarchy that came with the sandstorms were housed in Paris as far as I knew, and the remaining regional powers sustained a patrol of the old borders in the hopes of stopping both the warring bands of raiders and those on pilgrimage from getting caught within the old country.

My father had been Muslim; an American Muslim convert, and it was only because of him did I know of his own travels to Mecca, November, 1979.

"We don't hear about it too much in regards to Middle Eastern politics before 9/11, mostly because it was covered by the Iranian Revolution, but it was a hell of an event." I made note of.

"Oh yeah?" Masterson had flattened out the explosive padding along the proposed hole we needed for the next wall, the rest of the squad getting ready. "You know anything about this Moho?" He referred to Omar, his first name Mohammed.

He had shrugged, he watching down the corridors we had breached into.

I continued as I recollected my memory of college, scared out of my wits about studying the Middle East out of fear of being put on a watch list; especially as an American History major. "Around Thanksgiving in '79 about four hundred or so Islamic extremist who tried to introduce Islam's version of Christ's Coming raided Mecca and seized the Kaaba, took hostages, and all that."

"Oh shit." Masterson had always loved to hear me talk of history, he giving the explosive board one last tap before the squad had moved away from it, the man having the clacker in hand. "Breaching."

Another boom, another heaving and groan of stone being blown and moved in a way that was not supposed to be.

We had stepped through again with little difficulty.

"What happened?" Peters had asked, kicking away some debris for Khan to walk through. "Sounds like a terrible thing."

"Saudis were not prepared for such a thing to happen, especially seeing as violence within Mecca was not permitted by the faith."

Omar had nodded as he recalled such a rule. He had been born a Muslim too late to ever have taken a Hajj before Mecca disappeared. "Only way that can be taken back is with a Fatwa, right?"

A religious declaration or statement as far as I knew in the Islamic faith.

"Apparently." I responded, wiping some dust off my mask. "So the local Saudis tried to counter-attack and they were beaten back badly. The Saudi National Guard and Military were mobilized to respond."

"How come I ain't never heard of this shit?"

I shrugged as I continued. "Apparently the French had GIGN inserted to assist the Saudi military take back the place… but the thing was they couldn't actually step in foot in Mecca."

"Because only Muslims are allowed in the city." Omar knew.

"Yeah, so, in order to carry out the operation the GIGN operators had to actually convert to Islam… To be honest, I thought about them a bit when I was in the capital."

I tried to leave an implication there that I hope my men would've picked up on. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't as we kept pushing through.

The stone walls of this maze were old and aged: as fantastical as many of the old fairytales and legends of our own Greek and Roman would lead us to believe. Surrounded by these giant walls might've had Cam himself on edge, those who had grown up in suburbia and the Mid-West as well, but to me, despite the legends, it didn't phase me.

The idea of Roman mythics went away when the Gate opened, even as interest was renewed on the other side about the Roman Empire: because, in a sense, the ideas of Romulus, Remus, the Gods, the legends of legions, were all true now in blood and flesh.

To me, that humanized these walls, made them familiar. The concrete jungle of where I grew up desensitized me to these tall structures supposedly entrapping, ensnaring us.

* * *

"Man, where did all those bodies went from those coffins?"

Somewhere along the way one of my Rangers had wised up and remembered that there was, apparently, an epidemic afoot. Sure there were wandering dead outside these walls, but not enough to explain the broken coffins seen.

That was why, after a while, as we delved deeper into the maze we ended up actually seriously breaching each time just in case. Zombies were drawn to sounds, as Romero had taught us.

I thought we had the answer as the sound of what sounded like a chicken coop had emanated from beyond the wall we were stuck at, we having lost our minds to simple routine of breaching again and again.

"Shh, shh, hear that?"

I looked to the ground we were standing and then back through the holes we made. There was a considerable amount of moss in those passages we came through compared to where we stood now: against a flat wall. I glanced at my phone again and the picture Hauvsbaum took.

"A plaza is on the other side." I said simply.

"More than a plaza dawg." Wilkes had said, knocking his hand against the stone, the minute vibrations of a large creature on the other side evident. Our grips around our weapons had tightened at that moment.

"Cockatrice, maybe." I said immediately, kneejerking.

"A what?"

Rolled my head as I looked into my mind and remembered Pina's lesson on them to me. She was scared that one of the beast owners would send one out to fight me. "Half chicken, half lizard. Hates living things, even plants. Breaths numbing, toxic smog. Definitely a hostile, and not like we can avoid it."

There was a certain casualness we all talked with, as if everything that was happening was underneath us as people. Here we were blowing pieces of a testament to Roman engineering up while on a quest for a epidemic remedy, and we talked as if we were out for a walk in the park.

We were annoyed almost, but I suppose we wanted that detachment.

"So, kill a chicken?"

"Kill a chicken." I agreed.

Tony rolled his shoulders as his face contorted, head tilting. "Well how the fuck do we do that?"

"Well, I know the things rather bulletproof to an extent. Might give us problems, and I don't want to count on Masterson's aim with the Gustav in closer quarters." I licked my lips behind my mask, considering what, exactly we could do.

Eleven heads were better than one however.

"Sir, if I may make a suggestion." Wilkes spoke up, getting the tube on his back out and ready.

The 60mm mortar tube which half of us had were specially designed for our usage as SOCOM operators: special forces who requested the ability to rain down artillery at our own leisure in tight spots.

He didn't even need to speak for me to know what he wanted to put forth, his ruck taken off and revealing the amount of ammunition for the tubes we all had. He alone carried the ammunition.

What that ammunition was comprised of was the usual: smoke, high explosives and of the like. The most dangerous however was one that Lieutenant Commander Blackburn had delivered to us discretely, as per our role as light infantry.

If we needed a legion decimated, we knew what to use:

It was the same stuff that was loaded into my grenade launcher, in our smoke grenades, albeit in a less lethal scale: White Phosphorus.

"Not that I intend to be racist, Kay, but I think some fried chicken might be in our future." Cam had went on as I furrowed my brow at him, I ignoring the inclination to tell him to shut the fuck up for once. It was certainly a solution.

It wasn't as if we were using it on people after all.

But still I caught myself thinking about what would happen if we did use it on people at some people. Napalm had the same horror, and I knew what it did to the raiders of Italica. Fire was man's first tool, in my opinion: to harness nature as I presume the cavemen did. This was only a major refinement of that.

"What do we need to do for a saturation Specialist Wilkes? Willie Pete." I asked in earnest.

He had looked to the ground and then to the wall, some mental math being played through his head until he pursed his lips, satisfied with his answer. "Go a few walls back and then I'll set the elevation for each of us. Two volleys should do it."

"Practice then." Masterson said plainly.

"What? For the real thing? This feels pretty real."

"Artillery is a thinking man's game Sanders, this is just a practice problem." Wilkes gruffed, hauling his tube off as he pointed at those that had them, taking them a few walls back as we also, cautiously, made a buffer between us and area of fire.

He had handed out two, yellow colored mortar shells to each mortarman, the plate of the launchers placed against the wall almost against the preceding one: as was the tightness of the gap.

I had faith in him however as he silently adjusted each tube to its correct heading and aim, occasionally looking to the wall we were breaching through and then to the barrels.

"Ready when you are captain."

"Fire at will."

The rhythmic sound of mortar fire was a welcome aspect of modern warfare we could appreciate: artillery having been the long arm of the Special Task Force for a long time. The bloop, bloop, bloop of it all was calming if a storm was coming.

A fire storm that is. The sound of great concussive bursts, like fireworks, and the slow, sizzling rain that followed had silenced all before Wilkes had confirmed to hit his mark on the other side.

Suffering sounds like a soul wanting to leave a dying body: a sinking ship with which there is no return: sound and fury combined in the horrible wails of a living thing that wishes to die.

We could only oblige. I raised two fingers up toward a point on the wall as I tapped my fist against my helmet two times before making a punching motion. Those who hadn't armed a mortar had abided as the sound of a chicken screaming its lungs out on the other end had resounded: it trashing along whatever walls there were on the other side making thumps as strong as the mortar firing had been.

There was a sense of urgency those that stacked up had done, instead opting for detcord: making the man-sized impression before backing off and hitting the clacker: the smoke from the white phosphorus that was on the other side pushing through. They disappeared into the smoke after flashbangs were thrown in, Masterson as point man, pulling into the flames as we followed close behind, guns up.

We'd used white phosphorus before, during the garden party, just to demonstrate what we could use against them if it had ever come to that. It never stopped burning, creating a black hole on the patch of grass it landed on: a visitation of a whitish hell.

The stone seemed to melt as we all came through, the sounds of a dying beast coming through the faded smoke.

It was if the air itself was ill as impossibly white splotches remained on the environment, sparkles of flame and fire drifting around as if snowflakes. Our gas masks shielded us from burning our lungs, blistering our mouths, as we immersed ourselves within: creating a firing line on the other side as a black form approached us erratically.

The sound of constant sizzling greeted us as we came to this plaza: transformed into a place of destruction: bare once by design, bare now by destruction. There was nothing to destroy but a single beast that inhabited these halls.

One that might've given us trouble if we went gun to beak with.

We were practical people however.

This is what we had to show for it:

Flesh, charred to the blackest, ashiest, color one could image: what were once feathers now seemingly crystallized shards emanating out of a beast.

It looked at us with its beady, clouded over eyes, neck slithering and moving like a snake with its leathery underside, keeping its head low and constantly shifting. The whites of its eyes, by god, the whites of its eyes were the only thing that broke up its melted form as every caw seemed like a corrupted audio file: going against our ears like nails on chalkboard.

 _ **"Yeah, you want to kill us, don't you you fucking cock, huh?!"**_

As the beast hobbled, crawled, died its way toward us, Masterson opened his mouth. There was a rage, a callous insulting pleasure he had let into his voice.

The beast seemed to respond, trying to lunge out, only to trip, burnt flesh skidding on burnt ground as pieces of itself grinded into stone.

 _ **"Come on you fuckwad, come closer, I dare you!"**_

I turned my head over to Cam as he went on, frozen, gun up, but mouth moving behind his own mask. What the fuck was his issue?

The burn it had was almost comical, but absolute: the way pieces of itself fell of like flakes had revealed almost pink skin underneath rubbed raw. It was still on fire, scales crinkling up as it did its best to make its way toward us. And yet it still yelled at us, as if we were playing unfair. As if it was sentient. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, it cried out as pieces of its beak cracked and fell off, leaving only its fleshy tongue to fall out.

It was as big as a bus, and yet it didn't meant a thing to us as we turned out to be a victor of an unfair fight.

Khan, in his protective gear, had barked in return, murderous toward another beast that would've dared try to fight them. It fell on deaf ears however as a stray flame from its back snaked its way into one of its eyes: bursting it as its neck and head shook violently all at once.

It was on fire, and that was all I needed to describe it as Masterson took a step forward.

The nature of mercy killing was something Cam knew well, even toward a beast which was still kicking. The double barrel shotgun was in his hands, stock in his shoulder, as he had basically hunched down and pressed the two black barrels into the beast's black head, it unable to do anything.

With the way he had cut down the barrels of his shotgun the boom which blared out had been a terrible boom: one akin to thunder throughout the maze. The effect of that boom was also not to be understated. Not when some specks of blood had found themselves out from the skull of the beast to my rifle in short order.

The body was still twitching wildly, but with no obvious threat to us Masterson had been just fine standing there, smoking gun and all, and letting the splash of red on his form take hold as he had habitually ejected the two shells, two being slammed back in as he whipped the gun closed.

I didn't expect him to go again, pressing further inward into the crater he made, seeing the insides of a living creature's convulsing skull and brain, pressing up against that flesh as he did the unthinkable and fired again.

It was almost as if a drill had gone askew in the Cockatrice's head, everything at that forty five degree angle Cam fired at blown away as the spent shells flew over his shoulders again and, mercifully, he holstered his shotgun.

Something ticked in me as I held my breath and kept silent, the officer in me bucking up before tightening my fist up and sweeping across the entire room with an open hand, my Rangers fanning out with their rifles up, ignoring Masterson and the beast as they walked throughout the room with such rigid precision.

I pointed to two of them, they halting before I pointed then to Masterson and the beast, they understanding as they rushed up to the body, Wilkes getting his bayonet out and attaching it to his rifle, pig sticking the creature through its throat as Omar took a knee by Masterson, back to him.

Masterson was just standing there, open mouth, breathing, specks of blood dripping off of him with sweat.

I got my canteen ready to splash his gas mask clean, but he had raised a hand at me lightly as that hand returned to his face and wiped down: the mask itself coming off in one go as he smelled the toxic air, the toxic blood, and all he had done.

The color…

The liquid ran over his Mechanix gloves as pale as the blood of the zombies did.

"Eugh, you are what you eat." He ground before putting his mask back on.

"You alright Cam?" He nodded calmly before letting a splash of water from me going over his face. "Also _**what the fuck**_ was that?"

Khan had returned to the battle, even if the beast was dead: going to the corpse's neck and sinking his teeth in.

"Attaboy." Cam ignored my question, not wanting to answer as he slid his hand over his face, holding it.

I grabbed his arm, and we both froze. There was disappointment written in his laugh lines, pettiness within himself as he breathed out hard.

"Cam." My turn.

He looked at me, same height that we were, and saw his concern turned onto him. For a second, behind his clear mask, his eye had twitched as he was hit inside by some painful emotion, but he had let it run through him before discarding it.

"Sorry. Just got caught up in shit, is all. Fucking hate feral animals."

Bullshit.

Not that I had time to call him out on it as Omar, again, even as he shook his head from the gunfire echoing in his head, heard what we could barely.

"You hear that?"

The groans of women looking for men had been, for once, not appreciated as they filled the air of the labyrinth.

No rest for us weary.

 _ **"Aw fuck that shit."**_ Wilkes had spoken for us all as we realized what we heard.

It made us irritable, but being angry tended to work in combat.

This little arena for the overgrown cock had been hell of an echo chamber, one which reverberated the great bursts of mortars throughout. All the explosives, all the tribulations of an animal being put down had been broadcasted and put down to that one point: there.

In my time here, from Pina's guest bedroom, to Arnus, to the arenas, there was a certain suspension of belief I had to show for the sake of staying sane. That the tropes of a fantasy world were not tropes to them, but rather common facts and states of being. I still held that suspension of belief, but when the zombie horde came running, I remembered who I was.

I was an American boy, grown up on the idea that killing zombies was an okay thing to do. Two shots with the starting pistol and then a knife to finish them off to maximize point gain in videogames. These zombies had fumbled about like the walkers that a Kentucky cop had stabbed in the head over and over and over again in a TV series I hadn't the money to afford its channel.

These zombies operated on those rules in the lightest sense.

A single figure had come hobbling out from around the corner of an entrance to our right: I raised my rifle up as I squeezed off one unceremonious shot, the form dropped to the ground. A harbinger of what was to come.

 _ **"Alright!"**_ I screamed out, taking my knife out, checking its sheen once before putting it back in. "If these motherfuckers bite you, there ain't any risk of disease or shit like that! It's just gonna hurt like a bitch!"

"Khan! Stay!" Peters had yelled, the dog staying between his legs as the sound of the groaning multiplied. But Khan was beyond subservience, even when he did so, only to bear his teeth and growl, howling into the air in response.

My Rangers had shown that same eagerness that the dog did.

But Cam told me once, probably quoted from some anime I hadn't watched, that we were not wolves in sheep's clothing. We were wolves outright.

"Aw shit, we're actually doing this, aren't we?" Masterson had gotten his Peacemakers out, spinning the cylinders and checking their loads before holstering. I had nodded fiercely at him. I couldn't help but see the hint of roll in his eyes. As far as he was concerned, I hope, we were doing these bodies a favor at the end of it. "Drop your rucks!"

The quick release systems on our bags had dropped the gear on our backs, liberating us to our free movement, most of the bags kicked over to the cover of the dead chicken carcass, ammo quickly unpacked from all of them.

I had racked back my M16 once, clearing and then rechambering my rifle once as I let it fall limp against my chest, the M45 coming out as I did a brass check. It was these weapon checks that had helped give me that mood I needed to perpetuate, Masterson going to his own rifle and doing the same, blowing the top of his mag before reloading it.

Hauvsbaum had thumbed in rounds to her sniper rifle as she had flipped on the cover, transitioning to her off center backup sight, the sound of reloading and mechanical fumbling heard as the groans came closer and closer, the patter of rushing also heard.

"Shit, should I be scared?" Omar had muttered fast, he ejecting the mag in his M45 only to replace it. "You know, zombie horde and all **.** "

There was no fear in his voice. There was no fear in any of our actions, in our words as we all had gotten ready for contact.

Men in our rank, in our roles, had died before for more, for less; certainly for less. They died in the dirt of a glassed Middle East as children danced over their bodies. They died for the failure of the local militias, unable to work hand in hand with them. They died for a people that never wanted them there.

If we were to die here it was to insult who we were.

Zombies were only zombies, and we were who we were. We were not left for dead survivors doomed to an existence safe house to safe house, no citizens of a biohazard ridden city where the resident evil had been mutated monsters, or even the walking dead: the living that have yet to be become undead.

We were United States Army _fucking_ Rangers. Almost a dozen of us.

"Just like a videogame?!" Tony had tried to speak to himself, he loading his own rifle again quick, dropping the empty aluminum containers to the ground in a clatter. "I don't know if I got enough ammo!"

I looked to the swords astrewn by other adventurers done in by the cockatrice. We had weapons to draw from. Perhaps it was just the fact I was in a circular hellhole again, but this felt natural. My people couldn't disagree however, not when they had seen how easy they were to take down, how threatless they were.

It was a familiar feeling, and it was a grossly unkind thought that the Imperial Legions had offered the same kind of resistance zombies did.

The tip of my knife was against the back of my hand, having drifted there without me knowing; that urge to give my blood to a god I did not know sweeping through my mind as I pulled away.

"Watch your muzzles! Minimize your fire! We can do this!" Good thing was that there had been only two entrances into this little atrium in the maze, and the other seemed no-factor at the moment.

Masterson had spun his revolvers once, just for habit, as he rubbed shoulders with me, getting his pump action out only to pump it once to load it, tossing it over to Peters for him to use, Peters tossing his combat rifle over to Hauvsbaum.

Wiles had gone to their stomach in prone as they got their machine gun ready, my Rangers spreading themselves out across a firing line as they all either took a knee or laid prone themselves.

I would've liked to have said that the anticipation was the worst: but this was only the fifteen time or so we had faced a human wave. But we knew what was coming. We knew how to deal with it. We knew how to shoot into that crowd and do the most damage out of it.

I didn't like to think about that too much in all honesty: that we did know what to do.

Like the waves on a beach, they came in one organic swoosh: the firing beginning in one line as those bodies on the forefront tripped over each other, pieces of themselves lost to the mass of flesh behind them.

To us, it was a familiar sight regrettably.

We knew what to do now: gunfire kept to their heads as best we could, steady bursts, bodies and bodies tripping over each other in rags and in ribbons.

Naturally as they overflowed there would be runners to the side, but we knew how to cap them off: Masterson had taken one side as Omar went over to the other: a spray of fire almost corralling (if not killing) those that tried to pour over to the side, two riflemen splitting off to assist them as we controlled a conical area of fire.

It was their natural habit to somewhat move forward, so we all did as gunfire was put down range, into the mass of bodies of dozens of women, all clambering and falling on top of each other. The gun smoke rising, the smell of it bathing us all as my trigger finger became its own form of automatic: acting on its own with an enemy in my sights.

Why we hadn't put on our suppressors again I hadn't known, but each kick, each flash before my sight had been liable to give me lapses in my vision: frames of my life gone after each of my shots, each of my takedowns unseen.

It was a roar I had heard in my life too many times, but the roar of automatic gunfire was unmatched, and it went on into the seemingly infinite through our ear protection.

Trouble always came when one needed to reload however.

 _ **"Reloading!"**_ Our autogunner had yelled out as he tossed his ballsack of an ammo bag off his LMG, getting another one from his belt, having destroyed and cut apart many frail legs.

The grip of my left hand shifted down to my underslung's trigger.

I always saw the merit of Willie Pete condensed into 40mm form. " _ **Willie Pete!**_ Reload!"

I called out from the center of fire, the bloop that came after both explosive and fiery when it went off.

No shrapnel for this explosive: only the burning white of a substance that couldn't be extinguished, that was all encompassing and forever spreading.

The sound of the Mk46's bolt being racked back had been followed by more heads rolling, the crackling sound of fire and skulls bursting spreading for as long as the trigger was held.

Their skeletons came at us like fiery ghosts, but our rounds had caught them as I reloaded myself. When the M25 was drawn from one of my Rangers, the electronic clicking of its airburst capabilities coming alive, we had all gotten down on the floor or into a crouch.

The M25 had been a pretty piece of hardware afforded to us as Rangers: a pretty piece in that as the rapid bloops from it rang out I realized that the Ranger firing it hadn't bothered aiming above the fiery masses: the 40mm grenades tunneling through the broken bodies before bubbles of explosive flechette rang out and slashed through deep within the zombie mass.

What White Phosphorus does to living flesh is something that normal fire cannot attain or achieve. It is what mankind has made out to be Hell's own flame. The flesh that it burns burns until it is the color of a mirror reflection the darkest night, charred so that the very impression of a human being melts off leaving only the underbelly of faces and bone to bare.

It burns without regard; at a temperature half as hot as the sun itself.

Two Rangers stepped forward with their own grenade launchers, sending more Willie Pete to the sides of the mass, keeping them down one corridor as they continued to tumble out of where we came.

The only reason why I knew White Phosphorus as I did was because of my teacher.

He taught me how to use it, why to use it, and why I shouldn't use it.

But in the end, as the locks of hairs on these women's went alight like hay and straw, hardly looking like the undead, I could take sanctuary in the fact that they were dead women walking already as they burned.

The throaty groans of their blaze joined our gunfire as they made no progress on us, the bodies climbing and climbing and fueling that fire.

The gear we wore, those that had been to war before us, the lessons of the type of tactics we used was learned in what we donned today, now.

 _ **"We're pushing through them!"**_

Orders were orders. In the middle of combat I knew my men had processed orders like machines: indiscriminate in their listening and execution.

That sweeping motion they all adopted had been horrifying: the way they had shifted their rifles from side to side very gradually as they fought these zombies with a grace honed by the Romans that came before.

To fire out of cover, all at once, as they did: we were spoiled.

The way we were trained gave us the idea of a line of fire: that we were a wall that pushed forward regardless of all. We trained not until we got it right, but until we got it _**wrong**_.

And in one fell swoop we took our first steps forward, moving like the treads of a tank in unison, fire being spit as we became a human mulching machine.

When one would fall to be replaced, we would not stop.

I did not stop.

We were like a tank somewhat, moving as one unit, almost shoulder to shoulder as we took in our breaths and moved against the mass of flesh, firing outwards as fast as we could as we became a hot iron ball through an ice block.

Women were cut in half in front of us in gory displays, but we felt nothing for them.

Neither physical nor emotional.

They were the walking dead, abominations that needed to be cut down like we did so many Imperials before. And here we saw the purist display of what we had been doing for months here in a way that we could only measure: face to face with the dead already.

Hauvsbaum and Peters had shared a look as the walkers were bare feet away from us, and yet posed no actual threat. An eyebrow raised from her and a shake of his head had substantiated Peters getting his knife out and twisted through a woman's skull.

The amount of dead weight that came from that body was instant, crumpling to the floor as Peters looked on horrified, but knowing of what was the correct course of action as Hauvsbaum had gotten her hatchet out.

Our ammo hadn't run out, we weren't backed up against the wall, but we did what we wanted to do.

Those whose shins had been broken apart by our autogunner's fire had been crawling in typical fashion, but our boots came down and the splatter came up.

A systematic extermination of this infection was without remorse.

Masterson pumped his shotgun once, almost threateningly, as he had reloaded it after spilling more buckshot forward. "What the _**fuck**_ even is this?!"

The loss of an arm, fingers, piece and chunks of flesh and heads was not enough to fully kill them. That much I observed as a burst of mine took the stomach out of a woman.

What that meant was that we had to be absolute.

Some of my Rangers got the message as their breaching hammers and crowbars came out. Those that hadn't opted for the tactile weapons had simply been making a coordinated mess with automatic fire as we beat back an inhuman wave.

Beating them back was not the correct term in reality: we were _**hunting them down**_.

How far we immersed ourselves into it, we didn't know. Not when we were simply surrounded by flesh. So much flesh that I could reach out and feel, and hold it, and grab, and crush her neck by grip alone as I singled this particular body out from it all.

Her dead eyes, her spongy skin, the flies had been doing their job with her.

Now was my turn as I felt loose skin give beneath my fingers.

The Winchester had slid out from its scabbard as I held the feral woman by her neck, the twirl I did ending up with the rifle in her stomach. The boom and crunch, the give and take, was the last thing I felt from this woman as her body crumpled to the ground and I was met with my team having already pushed forward, cutting down into the flesh one gunshot, one slash, at a time.

Maybe it was some cardinal instinct, or some habit learned from the videogames I used to play, that as I was freed I raised my boot above her head and came down.

Maybe I didn't care what I just did, not when the horror before me reminded me so much of a throne room so far away.

Maybe I thought we were doing the world a favor.

Whatever I felt, whatever I did, it was in the name of staying alive at the very least as I flip cocked the Winchester again and did Rory's job.


	38. 2-17: Conflict in Every Human Heart

_**A/N:** _ Character development/introduction. Last three for this act I believe.

 **pwashington** \- I've put hints and insinuations, probably no more than sentence long throwaways, that Lelei has been undermining some aspects of the Special Task Force's system, and that she's pursing certain subjects beneath their nose. I won't hide that I'm doing this at this point, but I wanted to convey it in a way where she does this entirely innocently out of pure habit and drive. She is the person, if pressed, that will keep asking why.

 **Rip** \- I actually spent a good part of that former chapter writing out a rather elaborate fight scene where the Cockatrice and the Rangers go mono e mono, but then I remembered that they wouldn't do that. Not at all. The only unfair fight was the one they lost, and they did what they knew they could do and shelled it. The same with the Zombies. When Itami and his band went through the Labyrinth he and Rory did most of the heavy lifting. Now you have, as I tried to emphasize, a team of elite infantry who, given the mediocrity of these zombies, would've had no real issue dispatching them.

Also, perhaps, I put an analogue to the fact that killing zombies was no harder than putting down the Imperials before.

They've become used to it.

 **Weapon** \- You're gonna have to wait one more chapter to see Lisa's reaction, sorry.

* * *

 ** _Section 2-17_**

 ** _Posted 10/25/16_**

* * *

 _ **Seven months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **March 11**_ _ **th**_ _ **, 2029**_

 _ **Japan – Ginza – The Gate**_

* * *

General Andrade had often considered he lived many lives. A life as a father and husband, a life as a soldier, a life as a pilot, a life as an officer, and now as a commander among others.

All those lives, he had reasoned, would've been nice if he had been in a new world. With the Gate having appeared, there was now a possible resolution to that request, but that was simply a request shot off during half-serious conversations with his wife. He enjoyed the life he had with her and his kids.

He enjoyed knowing that, in the end, it was all alright at the latter half of this one hundred years.

It was his obligation to make sure the soldiers in the 7th MEU, and the JSDF for that matter, had eventually felt the same way at old age.

Today was not the day he'd visit Arnus Hill however. Today was not the day he'd step in the land of the Empire and see, with his own eyes, what Empire truly looked Iike.

Today was the day the fighters of the VMFA-118 were finally transferred over to assist the 7th MEU and supplement the outdated Hornets.

The 118th Marine Fighter Attack Squadron was formed shortly before the onset of the 2nd Korean War for what would've become the 7th MEU, a popular public polling in Japan having designated the name of the squadron. Needless to say it became, with its looping sapphire ribbon on its tail paired with an entirely coincidental squadron number, named after a popular fictional fighter squadron.

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle, upon assuming command of the squadron, had been moderately annoyed, however he had assumed the designation of Mobius One all the same. He had earned that positon through Korean MiGs downed and hundreds of people torn up in his gun runs.

The 118th was a well-equipped, and well manned squadron under normal pretenses, even in the 2nd Korean War when they were simply on one of their first routine flights when the borders broke down. The squadron had even operated out of the USS Enterprise with their F-35s as grounded air strips in Korea became overrun.

Now, however, was what had broken the 118th's back.

Most of the crew and the pilots had already been on the other side, posted at Arnus Hill with nearly mothballed Hornets.

With a need to shore up pilots and crew to accompany the doubled aircraft amount over there, a call was out throughout the USFJ:

Any base commanders who could, spare pilots to temporarily be stationed in the Special Region.

That day, on main street Ginza under the guise of an early morning bloom, the JSDF and the rest of the Army Rangers from the 4th Battalion posted in Japan having cleared and covered the entire shindig, General Andrade stood next to one of those "spare pilots".

She was one of the new breed, Andrade had noted. Trained after Open Wind, but before the Korean War. She flew during it, that much he knew: shot down three MiGs and a Hind. Not an Ace, but respectable, given that fact she was at the helm of an electric warfare craft with only point blank missiles for usage.

The Koreans and their unending waves of terrible human fodder had been emulated on the ground, in the armor, and in the air as well:

Even with outdated aircraft the North Koreans had been able to shore up enough aircraft to match the Blue Dragons that had been Japan and South Korea plane to plane.

She stood about three inches below him, her hair was sleek like an Asian woman's, but a dark brown as if an American. Chinese heritage, according to the file. He saw it in her eyes anyway. Lean, as a fighter pilot should've been, but there was more to it to her stance: a conflict three way between professionalism, and apprehensiveness, and the swagger of a fighter pilot.

"Lose the shades, pilot." He said once, looking up at her as she stood next to the veiled form of an F-35B. The craft in particular was Noelle's own, the battle earned stars of nearly two dozen Korean MiGs shot down on his nose in red stars along with one more: the winged form of a dragon. Noelle had been the only combat aircraft to down a dragon during that day over Ginza, if only because he had been on quick on the scramble from the USS Normandy as the rest of Emerson's Rangers had been.

She spooked herself, apparently dazing from behind those aviators, the disheveled frames clattering onto the flatbed's steel surface as she realized who had addressed her.

"General Andrade!" She snapped to a salute before the general had habitually answered with one of his own.

"Lieutenant Commander Athena Lin, I assume getting that promotion would've gotten your head out of your ass. I guess not." She got that promotion only recently, and it was due, in his opinion.

She kept rigid as the general addressed her. He wasn't a scary man to look out, outright, but there had been more to the general from Compton, six foot one and a tattoo across his back which, perhaps after a little stubbornness, he kept despite being the man of USAF absolute order.

It took two and a half decades for a man who flew during Desert Storm to finally get an air to air kill, and when he did, as the NATO and UN Blitzkrieg into Iran started, he took nine Iranian F-14s, MiGs, and Mirages with him in his Raptor.

He was the first ace of Open Wind, and, in the end, responsible for bringing his combat flights the most combined Iranian aircraft kills during the entire operation.

It was that same blood thirsty, borderline overzealous drive that drove him to be posted in Japan in case of a North Korean attack. That attack happened, and, as luck would have it, one of the pilots on station that day was Lieutenant Commander Lin, a Navy pilot whose squadron was in the air along with Noelle's.

She didn't say anything as the general climbed up to her level on the flatbed, staring her down with barely a twitch of his eye, the woman standing straight.

The general knew better however. If you wanted pilots to truly take on an aspect of the boots on the ground, to want so much to fight, to kill, to wage war from their cockpits miles up, you pressed them to their breaking point before mercifully letting go.

It was rare, and needed, to find pilots who operated under such conditions.

And so he remembered a then Lieutenant Lin and how she flew as the war needed it.

"Stand at ease. Nice to see you're still around."

She had let go of a breath she didn't know she was holding, leaning down for a second only to pick up her aviators. There was a sidearm on her hip, a hair tie around her wrist that had left a series of marks up and down her skin. Andrade looked to her eyes, and they did not tell the story of a well-rested woman. "Nice to see you're still around too, sir... I saw you during Ginza."

Andrade crossed his arms as he looked out behind at the convoy of further supplies: this was a JSDF and Marine supply run oriented at the air arm of the STF. It was a giant one at that: the largest move ever since the AC-130 was trucked in in pieces.

Every day new materials and building supplies would make their way past the Gate for further use by the STF in the building up of the facilities and The Corridor, but there had been a section to those supply transfers that the staff of the STF had often been in petty conflict about: the arming of the Rangers and the Marines to current standards.

This convoy had been just as big as the original invasion force, but the pomp of it had been lost to the reality of what had gone on behind that gate and iron dome. A reality that only a choice few had known from beyond the Gate.

Patiently Andrade's two guards had been below them on this flat bed, the other pilots waiting with their birds and support crew as preparations were set.

Normally most of the material and manpower that went past the Gate had been one way, but only two days ago had a convoy, gunned up, blood stained from their cargo, had sped through all the way to the JSDF's Central Hospital.

The most important cargo had been this: Delilah herself, down a hand, a leg, a piece of her ear, and a few other bits and pieces that Blackburn had taken from her. She was alive, barely, but there was a cuff and binding on any place there had still been a limb or a bandage.

That and a Delta Team along with JSDF SOGs had been posted in Central in case she had done anything funny.

Andrade had entertained her comment before he got to what he approached his true reasoning in confronting her, waiting for the move over. "Really? Forgive me for not noticing."

"Me and Lieutenant Commander Blackburn were among the first responders that day. Fresh from a Survival Game field… when we finally made it to your CP you were dealing with Tokyo Police on how to coordinate the road blocks." There was a little pomp and pride to her admittance. Though Emerson, Masterson, and Itami were the only ones awarded their distinct "Hero of Ginza" medal by the Japanese government, there had been scores more of first responders come in with clubs, fireworks, illegal firearms, trucks and cars, and whatever else could've fought against Roman legions. A staggering amount had been civilians, but, before the main force rolled in, there had been a few other military personnel like the trio who had access to proper combat firearms and the tenacity to go into Ginza.

Andrade had nodded thoroughly as he remembered that particular debacle. The Police and the Marines had different considerations when it came to locking down a city block, but the JSDF eventually intervened and took care of the situation for him.

That day in Ginza seemed so long ago now, but it was, in reality, only half a year. He still remembered what it was like to hold a rifle on the ground, and it had been a feeling he wanted to forget.

"Thank you for heeding Emerson's call then, Lieutenant Commander Lin, but you've helped me Segway into what I wanted to talk to you about."

She tilted her head. "What, sir?"

Andrade sounded tired. He was tired. "The same reason I'm talking to you now is the same reason why the Pentagon advised me against confirming your temporary transfer to Lieutenant Colonel Noelle's unit. It's the same reason why I think you should go, and the same reason why you shouldn't."

It was the same reason why she hadn't had any sleep recently.

She curled her lip as she looked away. "He broke operational security, didn't he?"

At around three in the morning Japanese Standard Time, a single cellular phone call was bounced from the Arnus Hill tower, through the data line that had been spread straight through the Gate, and out into the airwaves to her.

That call was from Lieutenant Commander Blackburn, from his bed at Arnus Hill hospital, fresh from an operation which got Delilah's kukri out of his shoulder. Given the meds he had been on, the phone call hadn't much substance, but it was a phone call altogether.

Andrade had been briefed on its content all the same.

It was sweet, poignant, but to the point.

Andrade nodded to Lin's guess. "I talked to Andrew when he was in Seoul, you know. He was our only ground communique when the Norks came and the only man able to organize the resistance to designate targets for the ground pounders. I have great respect for him and his abilities."

She had also nodded, remembering who he once was. "I know, sir, you tasked many of those coordinates to my flight. I ran SAAD that day, remember?" Her voice was young. Younger than the 29 that she was would've let on. Maybe in another world it would've fit her, but this was a cold world that day.

"I know you did. I wasn't aware he was your main squeeze until yesterday however, and I didn't know it was serious enough for him to brake the communication lock for personal calls."

Blackburn, in some quasi-delirious state, had said that "insurgents" had gotten within the main base of the Special Task Force and stabbed him.

To even admit such a thing happened publically would've had the American public in uproar, let alone the Japanese. To any civilian observer, the same steps were being tread again into an endless war…

She cringed at that, knowingly. "Sir. I saw an opportunity and I took it, respectfully."

Andrade had nodded thoughtfully, but in a way like a wolf, considering a lesser in the pack. He wasn't sure if she had been talking about their relationship or the chance to go through the Gate, but hadn't cared. "Lieutenant Commander Lin, every day I get reports that, with the casualties seen on the other side sustained by the Imperials, the JSDF and even some of the brass at the Pentagon are chomping at the bit to bloody themselves in easy kills: to test out new weapon systems meant for a Chinese war that might kick off its prelude if the situation with Vietnam explodes."

"Sir…?" She didn't understand.

Andrade pursed his lips in his coat, his cap, dead center, holding the pin of his rank. "Is that all you can say Lieutenant Commander Lin?"

It was the early morning, China, that day, was expected to transfer an entire squadron to the South Chinese border for an inevitable happening, and here she was… an able pilot whose specific set of piloting skills would've been invaluable if South East Asia went hot.

She winced as she grit her teeth, shaking something out of her. "The Special Task Force requested pilots. I answered."

"But why did you answer?" He pressed on, his voice soft.

"Is this on the record?" She worried.

Andrade tightened his jaw as he ignored her precaution. There was none needed. "You answered, not to pad for glory, not to paint your aircraft a few extra marks on your nose, but because you care about someone on the other side. I have to applaud you on that, if not tell you you're an idiot for acting on it."

She seemed offended for a second. "I can do my job well over there general."

"What? You think you can just get over there, break from your post, go to a hospital which, to my knowledge is locked down like the Green Zone was, and go visit your boyfriend?"

She kept her mouth open for just a second, considering her words, eye darting to the ground as her hands moved to her jumpsuit's pockets. "Sir, respectfully, it's not Iraq. And I think I have a right to see and comfort the man I love."

Those words had pained Andrade. They did as he winced, blew breath through his nose. "You fucking new pilots, both you and Noelle, you don't get it."

It was too early for this shit, Lin had thought as she also looked around incredulously before centering her sights. "Sir, _do you have a problem?_ "

Andrade knew he was venting to her. He knew she knew as he brought his rough hand to his mouth and dragged down in some tired aggravation.

"There are nearly two thousand Marines, Sailors, Airmen, and Soldiers over there right now. 99% of them are over there because they're doing their job. People are still processing forms, I'm sure there's one or two people over there that are bored out of their mind on the prefabs, heck, even the cooks. From the inside of the building, during the day to day activities that keep our machine going, to them it doesn't matter where they are. All they know is that how they act is based upon the wars that came before them, and how it doesn't matter where, or when, they fight, they will be who they were assigned to be and nothing more, if they know what's good for them."

"And how about that 1%?" The Rangers, Itami; that is who Lin insinuated, who she identified with.

The Rangers which Hitman had been a part of had only been standing a few yards away on guard duty for this convoy. The way they were outfitted had spoken of future warfare entirely: the rifles, their uniforms, their plate carriers and equipment screaming of special forces.

"…There's a saying in my mother tongue, Lieutenant Commander Lin: _Ahogado el nino, tapando el pozo."_ Andrade had looked to the distant East, past the buildings of Tokyo, toward America.

"And what does that translate to, general?"

"Only after a child drowns, do they close the well. I'm sure Hitman, and anyone who becomes involved in the people over there in certain ways will know what that really means."

"…Are you okay sir?" That's what this all was, Andrade had reasoned after so long, the Gate was only a distraction at this point from the real issues. The real issues of coming Pacific hostilities.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just protective about my pilots. Is all." He lied. He didn't want much more than Pierce's 7th over there but he had to play ball with the Pentagon, President Fletcher, and the former President Dirrel's existing orders. "Maybe I'm just trying to make you feel bad about going over there as a SAAD pilot. I doubt the Romans have any anti-air defenses."

"You can never be too sure." She touched the covering of the F-35, its form sheathed in both darkness and the cloth. A pause had come over them. If he wanted her out, Lin realized, he wouldn't have done it this way.

Andrade curled his lip once. "I have every right to pull you out of there if you fall out of line."

She nodded thoroughly, resolutely. "I recognize the risk."

"But you also know that, in the service of your country, you're wasting your time."

"Aren't we all over there, sir? Respectfully."

Two generations stood before a machine monster: a generation born from the Cold War, and a generation born into a Forever War. In between them a dead space left bare by conflict and human suffering that defined how both acted.

"What are you expecting?"

"More of a show of force than anything. I doubt that after the initial engagements that the Empire truly tried to engage us… least what I would think so. Fly this bird around whatever capital they got, and maybe their king or some shit signs a peace treaty even faster… assuming they haven't already."

She didn't know. None of the new personnel of the Special Task Force had been briefed about the battles that came before them. None had known of the antics of RCT3 and Hitman, none had known of the Corridor, or Myui, or the Battle of Italica or the Japanese Slave or the possibility of there being American prisoners.

It was all on a need to know basis.

"It's not for you to wonder, Lieutenant Commander Lin."

"Do you talk to all of your pilots like this, General Andrade?"

"Only the special ones."

"I'm flattered."

"Alright, good, I just wanted to give you shit and know what kind of leash you're on, is all, Lieutenant Commander Lin." He pocketed his hands as he silently brought his heels together, Lin recognizing the maneuver and bringing her hand up in salute.

The unspoken language of fighter pilots that transcended age; inherited by battling in the blue. The language of hawks, almost.

"I hear a Masterson is over there, too, you know. I hear you knew him" Lin said quietly, hair blowing in that urban sprawl.

Andrade smirked for a second. The son of Texas's favorite lawyers was known by Lin. She was born and raised in Austin.

"He doesn't take autographs, Lieutenant Commander Lin. He ain't that sorta person."

The sirens had sounded at that moment, waking up those few in Tokyo who had still been sleeping, the echoing roar of what had been the air raid sirens of Yokota ringing out, signaling yet another day of business as usual in the Special Task Force.

"Why are you letting me go, general, if you have reasons to oppose?"

Andrade had scratched his chin once before hopping off, shaking his head. "I know what kind of man Blackburn is. He needs a friend over there or else I won't even have to send over _Walke-_ " he caught himself before shaking his head. "Don't worry about it lieutenant commander. Just know who to keep cozy with."

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart – The Corridor – Furata's**_

* * *

"I hiked a lot as a kid, and, where I grew up as a kid, there used to be this large volcano I would climb."

"You? Climb a volcano?!"

"Yeah! I mean, it hadn't erupted for decades, but when it went, it was, if I'm not mistaken, one of the biggest eruptions in my time."

Valentine spoke, of course, of the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens. To who he was speaking to was the captivated harpy that the Corridor had known as Tyuwaru. She hailed from a land very similar to the Pacific North West which Valentine came from himself, and that was as much a thing to talk about.

It was one of those rare mornings when Valentine had time off duty, and, seeing within himself a moral person, he had taken care of a younger girl he had met in the prior few days. That girl being Tyuwaru. Maybe it was the inclination that he was going to be a father soon, maybe it was some paternal knee jerk motion that he held inside himself as the taker of lives on the daily, but he had done it without condition. Perhaps it was the fact he had blown out the brains of someone recently who had done this girl wrong, but he didn't think too much about how many pieces of him had been spread throughout that one room in the hospital complex.

Given that Arnus Hill wanted to keep the only other (known) special forces group at arm's reach in case of another attack like Delilah's, the Force Recon Operators had been told to be "At ease."

Today Valentine brought Tyuwaru to, on account of Delilah's restaurant being eviscerated in STALMP's and the Special Task Force MPs attempt to scour it for evidence, the restaurant inspired by the cooking of one of RCT3's members: Furata's.

Technically RCT3's cook actually owned the restaurant by the way of Bannon "suggesting" it to him.

It was good food, as Furata and his recipes yielded such dishes, but the only people who ate free had been off either a.) Hunting a Dragon, b.) Hunting for a cure for a zombie-esque disease, or c.) in the Capital currently changing the local politics by killing crime lords.

That and Valentine couldn't pay with bullet cartridges. Just cold hard Japanese Yen.

"How big?" the Harpy asked, thoroughly interested.

"Ah, half the mountain disappeared. But we were good."

The feminine chuckle of a third woman had joined the conversation.

Joining them for lunch that day had been one of the small business owners of the Corridor: a particularly peculiar feline that had been more familiar with the Marines than one would assume. Unlike Persia of the Fromar stock, she had been more "Feral" than that. If Persia had been a Kardashian then this woman with the Scout Sniper and the Harpy had been a Forman. Her cream and orange colored fur had been scattered messily, the fact that she had fur, two cat ears, and a tail the only real hint that she had been of the same species as Persia.

She was afforded something of a discount to Furata's for being the supplier of the beautiful flowers that decorated each of the tables from their vase.

"Ah, even Mother Nature, as you Americans call it, can be destructive." she said observantly, if not cutely. She still wore her apron that she wore at her shop, across her breast her nametag had read this: Lyuna.

Her hair was also that pleasant orange, tied up in a ponytail as befit a working class woman.

The business that she owned had been a flower shop, and Tyuwaru had been eying up a job at her establishment, as was why she had been invited to sit with them that day. Not that anyone had told her yet. Seeing as a flower shop hadn't been the most lucrative business she wouldn't have said no to any paid for meal.

The Harpy had winced as her half-consumed soup became cold. Before the invasion, she had been a refugee herself. Then again at this point, who wasn't?

Most of her own village had been destroyed during such a volcanic eruption, and so, as a wandering soul in Imperial territory, she naturally found herself slaved up and sold into Akusho's prostitution ring.

"Well, clearly, Mother Nature is more beautiful than destructive, as is why your line of business exists, isn't that right madam?" Valentine had nodded at Lyuna, pointing to her limply and then to the classical rose flower in the vase between them.

"You smell so nice Lyuna. How do you do it?" Tyuwaru had, when Valentine had come and picked her up from her housing today, had smelled like a man. Which was to say she had been, painfully to him, busy.

It was RCT3's Medic, Kurokawa Mari, that had left a suggestion to Arnus Hill before she had left again for the Imperial Capital. That was to simply apprehend any of the prostitutes under threat of law breaking.

For the Special Task Force, such decisions with an anchor in morality were too focused, too controversial, too complicated to carry out.

But, as Kurokawa herself had put it in her increasingly sour disposition: _"I just want people to stop_ _ **fucking**_ _prostitutes."_

Valentine could concur as he saw Tyuwaru that day and found a new mission for himself that didn't involve massacring hopeless Imperials.

"Oh, it just comes with the job, unfortunately. I could never get sick of the smell of flowers, however I often like to imagine what the cooks in Delilah's café smelled like after a long day with their food." the young woman answered.

"Smells better than him, definitively." Tyuwaru had poked Valentine as he rolled his eyes, the smell of his miso soup covering up said smell.

"I'm sorry for being human. I don't got a sense of smell like you people anyway."

"Like any of the senses it can be trained." Tyuwaru had pointed her finger up, waving it about.

That Valentine understood as he looked across the restaurant at current: it was a much more formal affair than Delilah's. The servants had been more conservative in their wear, and the food was meant to fulfill hunger, not quench thirsts and bring about spirits. This was where, judging by the fact that the canine humanoids in the corner had gone out of their way to groom and dress up, the more polite and casual of the Corridor came to eat if they had the cash.

Actual cash of course, not the Imperial Denari or the still very much illegal bullet trade.

For a moment, as Valentine used his most valuable sense to gauge the restaurant, he saw a normal world. What could've been a normal life being lived by those who came to the Corridor with Lelei's and Myui's promise of protection and a modern scheme.

It also helped that the restaurant, in its brick and mortar and marble, had looked the part.

Business had been up ever since Delilah's gamble came and went and, with the majority of the people there assuming that she had been torn limb from limb as Ryolu suggested, they came to Furata's to eat at the Arnus side of the Corridor.

"Your eyesight must be like that of a hawk's, Valentine." Tyuwaru had admired, almost. She would've been one to know what such an eyesight was.

Valentine rolled his head around in some bashfulness. "Ah, maybe, maybe not… I mean, you've probably got flight over me."

"Not until I'm much older. My twenties perhaps." She palmed her cheek bashfully.

"A little jealous." Lyuna had said.

"Envious, if I can correct." Valentine responded. The two women had looked at him oddly. "Envy is when you want something that someone else has, jealousy is when they have something that is supposed to be yours… I think."

"Hm, seems like you've thought about that a lot Val." Tyuwaru had laid her head on her hands on the table.

Their meal was eaten already. It was a nice, normal lunch at the very least. The patrons that day hadn't been too loud or anything of the like; polite. Perhaps they were in mourning over Delilah.

"Ah, maybe... Maybe."

Envious, or perhaps rightly jealous, of a regular life perhaps. That's what the medusa maid had conjured from her, for her sake, hidden ability to occasionally prod into people's minds.

"That being said, you've probably flown more than me, Valentine." Tyuwaru had a hint of cold creek into her voice, looking up at the ceiling from her chair that was basically her size. Past the roof, past the sky, looking at the hum of choppers come and go from either Camp Kilgore or Arnus Hill. "What're those things called?"

Valentine would've answered first, but Lyuna beat him. "Heely Choppers, I think. Always such a bother whenever they pass over my shop, knock all the displays out and ruins my flowers."

"Helicopters, and maybe I'll take you up in one one day." He corrected. Tyuwaru had chirped before leaning excited into the sniper's right side, the man chuckling as he toyed with a fork, quite satisfied with himself.

"Thank you, Valentine."

"Of course…" he nodded to himself before looking at Lyuna, her eyebrow raised as she finally, non verbally, asked why she had invited.

The sniper crossed his arms as a waiter had refilled their cups of water, the man sipping at them before anything else.

"Look, I know jack squat about flower gardening and stuff like that; that's more my wife's specialty, that it must certainly be a better life than-" Valentine caught himself as he remembered who had been next to him. "Sorry."

She had chirped empathetically, finally separating from him. "It's alright, I know you mean well… but this is the life I've become accustomed to, and it's a perfectly okay way to live."

"Oh don't give me that crap. If you were my daughter and you were caught up in this sorta shit I swear to god-"

"But I'm not your daughter Valentine."

She had caught him red handed in her simple words, said without malice or intent. Just the truth. And yet he pressed on.

"I'm sure your daughter would appreciate such sentiment though."

"Well she ain't born yet, but… I hope." Valentine sucked himself back in as Lyuna's ears twitched.

"When will she be born?" she asked in pure earnest.

"Four months or so. I'll be back home by then, hopefully."

"Well, make sure before you leave you stop by my shop, Sir Valentine. I have a bouquet that's just right for a newborn!"

"I'll be sure to, ma'am… still, not the point Tyuwaru." Valentine pressed on. "There are better ways to be spending your time and making your money than doing such things with people you don't know." Said the killer.

"I mean, it's just the way I've lived my life…" there was a hint of sadness in her words that Valentine had felt, Lyuna wincing at as she had idly taken the flower in the middle of the table in her hand. The rose was fresh cut, but yet it grew more in Lyuna's hands; a testament to a particular skill she had.

She should've taken this girl in, she knew. She didn't want to have a former prostitute working in the shop however.

That was her bias.

"Am I bad person for not knowing any other way to live?"

Valentine moved his palm through his brushed hair almost frantically. "Well, you're not an object. I know you're not. You're a walking, talking, living, breathing, feeling person. You're not someone's personal screw toy."

"Mizari tells me that it's as good a way to live as a mercenary, and we're giving joy to the people we service." There was another voice behind her words.

"But have you ever thought of doing something more fulfilling? More right?"

"What do you mean by _ **right**_?"

Another world, another era, another set of principles that could not be taught in a snap. That's what kept Valentine away from what he needed to see this girl do for herself.

Americans held those truths to be self-evident, but this was not America, and the people of the Corridor had not been Americans.

It's what kept her current "employer" in business.

That employer had walked into the restaurant. As always she drew attention.

Mizari had been an opportunistic mind at least. She recognized the moves of men and the ability to make one's payday in one fell swoop. Without a leash, and as Kurokawa had predicted, as she had predicted, she went back to the one thing she knew how to do.

She went back with company: those with also no other recourse.

She wore the same dress she did in Akusho: that veil of white and satin that made her take on her aspect of Angel. No matter what she did, no matter who she was, she was an angel, and the Marines that had seen her in passing, those with the Christian faith had nearly dropped dead at seeing one before them.

Otherwise men had just dropped to their knees in her beauty.

The only that had changed was the messenger bag, dyed pearl, that had been at her side: brimming with cash, jingling with coin.

Business had been good.

Her fingertips had graced the shoulder of one of the patrons of the restaurant. "Hello sweetheart." A customer from days past.

The staff had approached her, as if she was partaking in the food there, but she had waved them down and instead pointed at a table at the back: Valentine's.

Lyuna had raised her eyebrow for a second, impressed as any man's, but also with a piece of history under her breath: "Huh, I thought the Empire killed all of the _**Asael**_ people."

That was the name of the Angels that once inhabited the Sadera Hills, only to be done in by conquest.

Perhaps Mizari had been the last of her people.

Perhaps she was just another Delilah in the making.

Perhaps…

"I should really be going now-" Tyuwaru tried to get out of her seat, but Valentine's raised eyebrow had stopped her.

"Is she who I think she is?"

Tyuwaru had talked of Mizari fondly, if not with some apprehensiveness. She had nodded shyly as she held the edges of her seat.

She was a woman who had lived on the cut throat edge of a society that was liable to cast her out; Mizari had made sure she had a persona to exist, to live, to survive in it. As was why she had brought all the prostitutes with her to the Devil's House. As was why she talked to Kurokawa in particular.

Empathy was something that prostitutes used to enjoy the benefits of those with the charity to screw for pleasure in Akusho. People tended to be most vulnerable with their hearts open, pants down, or otherwise. Gripping someone by the balls had been her specialty, after all.

If Kurokawa was asked if the prostitutes were good people, she would've said yes without pause. Just dealt a bad hand, she reasoned.

But Emerson would've thought it different. Even before he had lived his time underneath Pina the old saying had been key to how he saw people:

"The right man, in the wrong place, at the wrong time" had been a versatile phrase. What it meant when applied to the prostitutes was something he could've applied to himself: When good people do bad things, good becomes a question of is or isn't.

Valentine had simply thought that all people were were what they did, which was why he wanted Tyuwaru out of her position so fast. She had done bad, and that bad was goaded on by this angel.

She walked up to that table with little introduction. "Tyuwaru, weren't you supposed to be near the Fifth Square with Loruru and Kally today?"

The Harpy vibrated visibly, unable to hold a gaze with Mizari as if a guilty child. "Uhm, Sir Valentine here invited me to lunch and well-" she looked into her own mind before pulling out a piece of ugly knowledge. "You said it yourself, we should never say no to a man's request."

Valentine nearly puked at the sound of her saying that and what it meant.

"What do you want, ma'am." He said as he held his gut down, a hand covering his mouth. There was irritation behind it.

"Ah, so you're Valentine, aren't you? I heard the Gladiator Kay and his Demons talk of you once or twice."

"Who the Hell is Kay?"

Mizari raised her eyebrow before disregarding. "I've come here to check up on little Tyuwaru here. I heard from my people she was around here and she's supposed to be attending to some other men…"

Valentine hadn't moved his head as he palmed his face, speaking through his bones. "I didn't know you were working today, Tyuwaru."

The Harpy could only fidget her mouth, no words coming out. Valentine had once or twice asked that she stop, at once, doing what she did. He said, _"One day you're not going to have me or someone like me put their foot down for you if someone gets too frisky, ya dig?"_

Habits are hard to break however, especially ones that are financially reliant.

"What job calls her at noon and keeps her busy until the morning the day after?"

"A special job, one that isn't listed by the Fromars as needed by this Special Task Force of yours." She answered slyly. What she did was illegal. But then again the law only applied to those without power, and Mizari had her own.

"Then why don't you go through the Fromars or the Task Force's system to get a job that's more… appropriate?" Valentine, for a second, thought about the fact he would be willing to put Tyuwaru up for child labor, but he had bigger battles to fight first.

Mizari had rolled her eyes. "We have to support ourselves in this new economy the Japanese are proposing, and the local government nor this Order of the Red Cross cannot find positions for us in town fast enough. Madam Lelei, who was in charge of such local job finding services, is missing at the moment as well."

Who knew that a ragtag group of dragon hunters could affect Valentine like they did now.

"Can't you wait though? You seem to have enough coin." Valentine pointed to her bag.

She had scoffed almost as she put the back behind her form more. "You can't feed the amount of people I tend to with just this, that and with how busy this place is, I can imagine the men are more than willing to pay for a service that happens to be rare… I'm sure one of your comrades would also be willing to take on this service, seeing as how valiant you all were a few nights ago." It was more than an insinuation. It was the promise, the prediction, the already-happened fact. If Wilbur had gotten his piece, so had any other macho Marine who really tried.

There was a ring on Valentine's finger that made him decline, his fist curling on the table.

"What do you want ma'am?"

"Tyuwaru."

Valentine had sucked in some air sharply as he had scratched as his sideburns, taking a glance at the speechless Tyuwaru, instead looking down at her half eaten meal motionlessly.

How old was she again? Valentine had thought. 13? 14?

"I'm sorry, Miss Mizari, however she's having lunch with me and Miss Lyuna here."

"Really? I thought she was supposed to be helping us today."

"She has better things to be doing."

"It's a job: what she does."

"It's not a job, it's exploitation."

" _How rude._ "

Valentine had silently snickered. "Too bad. You're just lucky _**we're**_ too busy with other shit to do anything about it."

She took a drag from her pipe, always there, always letting the wispy clouds off into the air in a building where smoking was not allowed. It smelt of sin. The pause that had been offered was only filled in with the façade of people trying to keep cool.

Valentine had killed for less.

Mizari had expected Tyuwaru to already have come with her.

The poor flower shop owner Lyuna had only fidgeted in her seat, her tail dead, her fur raised.

"So you know what we do?" The angel asked. It was an insulting question to Valentine almost: to have him say what Tyuwaru did.

"I prefer not to say what when I'm having lunch." Steak was steak, and the type of bovine they had here in Italica provided a particularly interesting taste. "And besides, it's wrong and illegal in this Corridor."

Suppose the same could've been said for the women.

"I'm coming Mizari." Tyuwaru had said as if expected of her, she said it hurriedly, with urgency that betrayed her age.

"You don't have to go Tyuwaru."

"It's for the best…" Valentine had instead opened up his worn palm at her, stopping her as she almost got out of her chair.

There was a certain tenseness in Valentine's voice that made the volume project throughout that quaint room, and the restaurant had looked to them silently. Conflict within the Corridor. The Killer of Italica versus the Lover of the Corridor. Angels and Demons appropriately.

With the arrival of the prostitutes came the legends of Kay Ro Bronxon and those that trained with him. It was only assumed that, as per Emerson's posturing to the Imperials, he had trained or were kin with the special forces of the Special Task Force.

If Emerson was Demon Lord, Valentine was one of his own.

Mizari had treated him as such.

"You are so fond of Tyuwaru, she tells me… I suppose you like kids yourself, don't you?"

" _ **Nah.**_ " His answer was hard and fast, his head shaking as he scooched his chair back for his sitting form to face Mizari. "You come to me while I'm having a meal I paid for and call me a kid fucker-"

A picture snapped in the background. A JSDF patron with his digital camera had taken a snapshot, slightly annoying the sniper. The locals however wouldn't know any better.

Mizari had barely moved her arm in accusation, her hand ever gripping her pipe. "Why just her though? If you feel for what she has been doing is wrong, than why not bring the issue broader? To all of us?"

"One step at a time." It was his only excuse, his only lie. After step one he'd rather stop. After all, as long as he only saved one person in his time here, it would've been okay he reasoned. It would've been how he could've lived himself.

Because, in the end, _there's a conflict in every human heart, between the rational and the irrational…_

Forget about everyone else, remember her, forget this damned Special Region after going home. Settle down and never pick up a gun again if he could.

Mizari had read Valentine's stiffness, the aggressiveness in his voice, the way he ran his hand through his light brown facial hair to give his hands something else to do other than strangle the angel.

It was no use talking to him.

"You know it's a team effort, Tyuwaru. _**It always has been**_." She turned to the harpy.

From the day Tyuwaru arrived in the Capital, to the day she left, the prostitutes always kept together.

"Maybe she's better off, ma'am." Valentine answered for her.

She shot back. "Well, she's on the clock right now."

"If her time is worth that much to you, _**here**_." It was a jumble of five dollar bills, and a wad of Yen had been balled into Valentine's fist and put before Mizari on the table. Those who had been in earshot and witness to what had been happening in their corner of the restaurant (thanks to Mizari, a great deal of the customers) had the life sucked out of them as Valentine's hand went below the table to his thigh holster.

His Glock was drawn above the table, and one woman spectator had shrieked. Instead of the worst happening however his hand had racked the pistol back twice, two cartridges plopping onto the table as the gun was put back immediately.

"I've got her now, and I bet those pretty little wings of yours that neither I nor you will be laying a finger on her."

Mizari had coolly took another drag from her pipe before taking the collection of currency and putting in her own pocketbook, her eyes half lidded, looking down on him. "Your loss." She turned away after, her money made, the trail of white being left by her as she made her leave. She had thrown a gaze over her shoulder however, just before getting out of earshot. "I'll see you tonight Tyuwaru."

Lyuna had put her nose up at her as she flared one nostril, a twitch over one eye. "The best thing those prostitutes have done for me is at least get their gentlemen suitors to buy more flowers. Despicable."

Valentine had looked at her backside, not in lust, but in a certain kind of rage that only a man like him could display toward an evil. "Mizari? _More like Misery._ "

He forgot when he stopped chewing his tobacco and instead began grinding it against his molars, but Tyuwaru had noticed, grateful, if not worried.

"It's not worth _your_ time, Valentine. Thank you." Her small, odd feeling hand had touched his forearm, and, just for a moment, the sniper had agreed as the angel left his sight.

* * *

 _ **Vietnam – Hanoi - The Old Quarter**_

* * *

Nguyen Huu Vo (to the American who owned the store he worked at, just Vo), was hardly a young man who knew what it was like to be a warrior and waking up either a.) hating his life or b.) having existential and moral crises on the daily.

No, his only real issue with waking up was simply waking up from his modest bed in his apartment skirting the Old Quarter in Hanoi.

Perhaps there had been more reason and rhyme to that than usual as the party van with its usual morning party announcements had bumped through the street, competing with Hanoi's plentiful mopeds and motorcycles.

It screamed into the air, reminding every male of age that, if needed, they would have to take arms for their country again against another foreign power. Subjects of nature that, at face value, Vo could've gotten behind as a Vietnamese who was rather well off in life: a manager at a smartphone outlet that Apple had been eyeing to be certified in the selling of their products.

His own smartphone had been ringing as it blared its own alarm, and like any other twenty two year old he had groaned before saying the magic words.

"Siri. Off please."

"Of course." The digital assistant had responded to him as the ringing of his iPhone shut off. "Do you want to see today's headlines Jackson?"

"No thank you, Siri. Silent mode until Noon." He said simply in his groan, finally sitting upright in his white sheets. His digital assistant had referred to him as such for practice of course. His Boss had made a deal with the Apple scouter that, if decided that his outlet would've been an official Apple outfitter, he would've needed to send employees to Cupertino in order to train new technicians for that store. Vo would've been on deck to lead them in that education, and because of that, an American name was in order.

That day wasn't today however, he had known, back against his metal headboard and black hair reaching out like an afro, or a hedgehog. He wasn't exactly the most fit man in Hanoi, a few stomach rolls and unkempt grooming painting his form as any other disgruntled Vietnamese young professional, but it was a form that got him by from day to day and kept him happy.

His own self happiness had been a lesson learned from an unsuccessful relationship that he had been dropped from recently, but all was well for him that morning as he left his phone on his meager bedside desk and looked at his modest apartment.

There was a set of dishes yet to be washed; gifts from his parents when he moved out, a picture of them propped above the kitchen on one of the cabinets. Connected to the kitchen had been the rather Spartan living room: big enough for a couch and a TV and maybe something or another in the middle, but there had been no TV: only a laptop laying on the coffee table in the middle as light poured in from the two windows he had been afforded.

His ex-girlfriend's linens had still been on the couch, but he doubted she would've been back for them.

With it only serving one at the moment, it felt new again, if not roomier as he patted along to the bathroom with only his draw string pants.

The young man that was reflected in the mirror, as his mother told him, was a spitting image of his father. Which was to say he was handsome. He had argued it didn't require much maintenance as he dipped his face in the water of his sink, it pooling from his faucet cleanly. A towel was enough for his touch up in the morning, glasses put on as he smelled the cool air stream into his nose.

Beyond that however, his mirror had spoken to him in words:

It was something of a DIY tinkerer project, a plain mirror transformed into a reflective screen that displayed the days agenda and the weather, along with other tidbits of information a man in the morning would've appreciated.

It was a little piece of the so called future that was apparently abundant in America and the West, and, all things considered, 2029 had been the future, however that future was slow to reach the rest of the world.

Let alone Old Quarter Hanoi.

This mirror was his stop gap.

Still Vietnam had been afforded a boom in its economy after the Chinese housing bubble popped and South Korea destroyed: many businesses abroad putting more credence into the Vietnamese economic situation. Many businesses that once relied on Chinese and Korean labor instead moving shop to Vietnam after the North Koreans invaded or the global economy nearly bottomed after the failure of China.

What was once an already bubbling, progressing South East Asian regional power had become a new, if not temporary, place where the modern economy could rely on. The sweatshops and factories of questionable work conditions had been quickly stamped out as the focus on worker's rights intensified with this new responsibility and economic payload, new technologies expediting many manufacturing processes.

It was a good time to be Vietnamese, and in general today was a good day, according to the mirror, Vo having nodded at himself content as he realized the agenda for the month and week on was hectic, if not anything else. He was good at planning, if not forced into it.

He was, jokingly among his friends, called as a young child "the Man with the Plan".

He took it to heart as he wandered to the window of his bathroom, the pork and noodle shop down the street getting its stones hot and ready for whatever the day would've brought in. It was that scent which usually invigorated him to wake up.

It was also liable for him to daze out as his elbows came to rest upon the old wood, slipping, ever gradually, until a brain bucket of old had tumbled off the ledge and down to his bathroom floor.

There was a little jump, a little shock behind it, but it was something he'd done tons of times before on accident.

He had gingerly picked up the faded green helmet, broken leather straps across its front. It was a helmet that had been in his family for around half a century at that point, but, if helmets could talk, this one probably could've spoken of a hundred years worth of war.

It was his grandfather's helmet from his time in the NVA, fighting against the French, the Chinese, the Cambodians, and, of course, the Americans.

And, mercifully, it had a long bout of peace. As was why Vo's grandfather had handed it down to his grandson for having a life, not of a soldier, but of a civilian.

Whimsically, Vo had didn't mind this arrangement. His father and grandfather, his mother and grandmother, had bled for his life now. This helmet was a reminder.

A reminder he had placed on his bathroom window sill he had seen every single morning.

"Not today." he said to it. The wish of the world; the hope of peace in South East Asia. A dare against an inevitable conflict. _"Not today…"_


	39. 2-18F: Mother

**_Section 2-18 Foxtrot_**

 ** _Posted 12/1/16_**

* * *

He wouldn't let them know, but he was medically trained.

It was how he survived after so many beatings, so many clubs to the stomachs and punches to the bone. He was a trained professional in many ways, and all of them had helped him survive that long. What he would've given to be a trained linguist however, right now. Gradually he picked up some semblance of the language these Romans used. Food, water, speak, hurt, pain, blood, sleep and of the like. The basic primal signifiers that he was not surprised that he did learn at the end of it, this many months in.

At least he knew how to request food and water.

That much they gave him. He didn't fight back anymore. Not because he couldn't, but because if they broke his hands then they would not have been as useful as they were now.

The cells in that underground dungeon, moist dirt above them, were side by side separated only by walkways and the bars between them. They would be rotated every once and a while, prisoners coming and going and disappearing and reappearing at random intervals.

The bars had been wide enough however, for hands. The hands of the man to reach out to his neighbor and, do as best he could when none of the Roman guards were watching, to mend the broken like he in that pit they were in.

Today was no different as he worked under lamplight, finished with one woman: an obviously broken bunny-like human, used as a fuck toy by the guards. The water of the Earth, the leaves he would save from his meager meals, the natural secretions of one of the more reptilian like beasts, had served as a sanitizer for wounds brought upon by the rape and ravaging she had endured.

There were many like here in that prison, the man had observed. They had been there longer than anyone else, and just as he offered his talents for the survival of his fellow inmates, they had offered their own in whatever they could do.

He learned intimately that he was in another world, reality, not some fucked up dream of his that he had fallen into. This was a world of Romans, and beasts, and magic, and cruelty. But he had barely known the world past the dungeon: only the glimpses he had on his cart trip over: bound and gagged and chained to a cart he had to follow blindly.

Even though the majority had been rabbit people, there were still the odd other: reptiles, the elven, orcs and trolls, and, unsurprisingly, humans.

Humans such as he and the next patient of that day, scooting over in the dark of their stone floor. There was no natural light underground, night or day was inconsistent, and so the prisoners had all operated on the changing of the guard to determine what time it had been.

Right now it had been around evening, the man had figured as one Roman who passed by their cages had yawned, muttering about food and sleep and wanting to go to them.

This woman had her back against the bars, back facing him: her long auburn locks unkempt, dirty, and disguising their true color. She was thin, her scars: old. The rabbits didn't seem to know her, nor did anyone else, a name was not even lifted from her after all this time. She just kept herself locked in a cage in her mind much like the cage here.

"What is your problem?" The man talked. Somedays it was in one language, somedays, another. Today was his the tongue of his mother.

The woman hadn't reacted at all to the sound of his foreign words, the man cocking his head to try and see what he could in the dim light.

She had been a slender woman, if, he imagined, she was healthy. Her thin lips was curled, a rather triangular face with small ears. Her eyes were forever open, and, for a second, the man had assumed her dead. Though he had heard her small breaths, the rise and fall, the minute vibrations of her back.

Her breaths weren't those of a woman who existed in pain, and she had felt okay to the touch as he had went ahead and pressed two fingers to her pulse. She didn't react still.

"Seem healthy… you. Maybe lucky."

Not many people were in possession of luck, just by virtue of being there. So with his eyes he just looked her up and down as a medic like him could, and nothing screamed at him that she was on the verge of death like so many other of his fellow prisoners. The Romans were not kind.

"You are fine, it seems… but… huh." The rags that they gave the prisoners to wear had been barely considered rags. Even all this time all the man had was pants to cover his shame. The women had been less lucky generally, but this woman here had enough showing to clue the man in to a rather intimate mark.

The mark of a mother.

Once, in a battlefield far away, he had to do such a procedure to a dog for her pups to be born. A drastic surgery performed underneath his combat knife and whatever morphine he felt comfortable sparing.

A Cesarean section.

 _Rebenok_. A child.

By virtue of trying to know the correct words to tell the Romans to go "fuck their mother", the man had known that single word for the most important woman in many people's lives. There was a pang in his heart for his own, and how much it would've been nice to let her know that he was alright. Sure, beaten, imprisoned, but alive and okay and par for course in his career choice.

He was trained to be imprisoned by intelligence agencies however, not empires.

 _ **"Materu?"**_ Mother, in their language.

She shuffled away from him just barely, but she did, showing her disinterest as the man breathed out quietly in his own exasperation. Those that usually refused his work did so violently. But enough had taken his expertise to heart that word had been quietly getting around in that damp place with no hope that there had been a glimmer of safety.

Idle hands were the devil's play things, so he was obligated to do something. Something.

Even sleep was not good for him at this point. Every time he woke up he was still there, and his comrades hadn't found him yet for some blazing rescue that he had been somewhat expecting at some point.

What else do idle people do but talk? Talk was cheap, free, even, and the guards had allowed it to a certain noise level.

Besides, whenever he spoke people liked to listen. Even if they didn't understand a word of it.

His language was a modern language after all.

 _"I fought for my mother, you know."_ He played with his own nails, having nibbled on them himself down to size: old child hood habits brought up again. It was a habit quelled by his mother after all.

" _That's why I returned to my ancestral home at first, to make sure she lived in a safe land. She returned there… to the home of her ancestors, so that she could live a good life. The government of that land however was not the same, was not right…"_

He was one of the first soldiers there, he remembered, clad in his jeans and track suit hiding his gear.

 _"My mother, I remember one of the last things she told me before we went to war, was that she was proud that I had been taking up the blood of my own ancestors finally. I loved that fact that I was making my mother happy, that I was doing my country a service by taking back what was ours…_

 _I do not have children of my own but, I like to imagine that family makes us into who we are. So I like to wonder what my children would be like, if raised by me. I wonder if my mother always intended me to fight…_

 _I wonder how you would think for your child."_

He slipped the native word for child into his reminiscing and thinking. As a man who knew medical theory and practice, he knew medical malpractice. It was always from the inside out that people burned the most.

Even if he didn't mean to harm the woman, a placed blade of a word was something he hoped would do something.

Besides, it was nice to him to talk of his mother and why he joined the service.

He heard the ruffle of movement behind him, the flick of paper.

Some flick of crumpled paper.

He turned his head and saw a painted picture.

Across towns, nations, kilometers, cultures, and worlds, the way that the young draw are the same.

Stick figures.

Two stick figures on top of a blocky hill and castle, holding hands. That's what the man could make out, even if the wax that drew it had become faded. The picture had been folded up infinitely to its smallest point, the creases crisscrossing through, but the main subject of the paper still remaining.

A picture.

How many of his comrades had held onto the same sort of trinkets? Too many. The reason? To keep them alive.

The reason was the same here.

He pointed from the little painted picture to her, and then to her stomach.

She nodded, barely turning her head toward him, the cut on her lips noticed by him tragically.

A thumbs up wasn't understood by her, but he gave it with what smile he could put together himself.

His own face hadn't been much better admittedly.

 _ **"Beneur. Beneur." Good. Good.**_

 _ **"Gatibi."**_ She responded, a word he did not know directed at him. _**"Viliya."**_ She put her stub of an index finger on the smaller figure of the picture: red curls shared by them both.

"Viliya?" The man repeated, unsure if name or who she was to her. "Uhrrr…. Ize viliya?"

She seemed unbelieving at the man, trying to call himself a daughter as to try and understand what viliya meant. "Viliya?" She gestured toward his crotch, as if holding a pair of dice with her free hand.

That had been conclusive enough as the man had made an "ah!" sound and shook his head.

"Nu nu nu nu. Nu viliya."

She tilted her head at him perplexed, but now remembering the language barrier that existed between them. She had made a V with her fingers. "Viliya." Then she balled her hand into a fist and forced her thumb through the gap of her index and middle finger. "Dayo"

Girl and boy.

"Ya, ya, ya." The man had understood, exaggerating as he shook his head up and down. He pointed at himself, in the dark, repeating those word which the guards had hated to hear: "Mikita." He poked his thumb at his chest. "Mikita. _**Au Mikita**_." Mikita. I, Mikita.

She understood at once, and in one fell swoop. Saying the answer brought needed relief to her; that much the man knew. He had made comrades before say the very same thing, on battlefields that never existed on missions that never took place. Sometimes they had been their last words.

These words however, would not be her last. She'd existed this long just for her sake.

Her thumb had graced the faded face of the painted picture: the old fade still survived, just like her. " **Pina.** _**Pina Co Lada**_ _ **.**_ "


	40. 2-18: Nara

_**Section 2-18**_

 _ **Posted on 12/1/2016**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart - Warlord 1-3's Unit - The Terilia Plains - Near the Border of the Elbe Fiefdom**_

* * *

When the call went out for the former tanking oil men of the US Military to be, secretly, injected into the 7th MEU as the United States' finger on the figurative resource pulse of Falmart, Kingdom Come's Dixie had answered that call with little argument. He was always a man of stout beliefs, and if his country called for him again during a time after the Forever War, he would answer.

It didn't matter to him, after all that time, the nature of America's enemy. For all the controversy that surrounded the draft and the Forever War that they fought, Dixie was a man who believed in the right of a contract, and the right of a nation's soldiers.

His life was not his own to die for. It was his country's. Even his time in the lucrative oil business hadn't changed that.

To what extent he had been a man in the oil industry seemed rather frivolous, though he had operated with Shell for a time as a… human resources man. He knew how to settle disagreements among coworkers, and so he had been the one to put himself between Bannon and Itami as the Ranger curled her first in, presumably, preparations to give an Itami a sock.

There was a reason why he had marred knuckles, when moral men like Wilbur had gotten out of line, in his presence, he made the best of his own resources.

Elton's tankers in the Rolling Stone had been mostly in security and management positions, Captain Csintalan and her group had been chemists or the like for refining, Warlord 1-4 being a bunch of equipment engineers.

The 1-3, Kingdom Come, had been everything else: the surveyor, the human resources man, the computer technician and the… no one knew what Schmack was, but Wilbur had seemed to understand. There were some things about the old job that were unspeakable in their fashion.

"Hey, hey, hey now." He sputtered frantically, underestimating how much force Bannon had to push against his body as she started to try and move toward Itami, the man already on the grass from an already delivered shove. The agitation around her left eye had been very noticeable, the clench of her jaw holding no secrets as to her exact reaction to being brought to Itami's level.

"Hey! Hey! Bannon! Calm down!"

All the Japanese lieutenant could do was slide back on his ass, grass stains marking him.

 _ **"Leave me alone, Marine!"**_

Rory, looking on, had squeezed her thighs together as she heard Bannon speak with that voice of hers. It was the pure essence of Americana as she knew it: that incomprehensible rage that brewed inside the Americans, brought out by an invisible barrier breaking.

The apostle could feel the very essence of that anger in her palm, in her finger tips: like the tickling of flower petals crushed beneath her grip.

"Oh I'm sure that's what a loving wife _**does**_ to her husband! Beat the shit out of him, eh?!" He had found out the charade as abruptly as anyone, but just like combat, he had adjusted fast enough.

Bannon did not. _**"I'm not his god damned wife!"**_

With one heave and ho Dixie had been forced onto the ground by Bannon, a force within her manifesting into a push and shove that even a tanker couldn't beat, the sound of her fists forming by the cracking of her knuckles making Dixie freeze cold on his back as the Rangers and Marines surrounded Bannon.

Chains had rested his hand on his .45 in his holster. No one had the right to take down another tanker but a tanker.

Loke had seen the man from South Central rest a hand on his piece quickly, the woman twisting her body towards him to make known to him that she saw, and would see, anything he would do. A line was drawn then and there with the insinuation of _something_ happening. An unspeakable something.

Unspeakable, but liable to have had her rest her right hand on the back of her rifle's grip, it itself draped across her front. The Rangers had slept with their gear on, this opposed to the Marines and Itami, slack in this foreign land.

No more resistance was needed however, not when a voice had stopped her wholly in her tracks, just short of beating the shit out of Itami and anyone who would stop her. She stood over him, the fear of God in his eyes, as her fist formed tightly.

 _ **"What?"**_

The breaking. Hearing Chuka falter had been like glass breaking: the slow scramble of spidering cracks until one final give away. The glass had still been intact, but the marks of strains had been there, multiplying hour by hour as more weight was put upon it.

"What are you talking about Mother?" The death of hope was not something Bannon could be responsible for: not as she stood there as Chuka looked at her as she did Itami, and saw the image of a person long dead.

Her name was Nara Luna Marceau. She was an archer, like her husband, like her daughter; other skills including craftsmanship which helped maintain Kowan Village's many tree-attached housings for the elves that lived there. Often she would use the spare twine and rope meant for the bridges between the higher settlements to swing and slide down the trees which the elves had called holy. Her favorite food was something only one of the willing traders who would pass into Kowan Forest: a sort of crispy, fried, vegetable that only came from the river peoples of Falmart.

She often tied her hair with the rope and feathers used by her husband's bows and taught her daughter before Hodor took the reins, and, at the end of the night, she was the only one awake in their home on account of her sleeping difficulties.

She loved her daughter to death, at age 328.

It was infection that did her in.

And the only one that knew that would've been Chuka, and to ask her all that, and more, would be to break her.

Despite this all…

Bannon's face fluttered for a second, inbetween a breath, flashing between the fake smile and the look of despair of where she ended up.

Chuka spoke with Itami in the Lingua Franca, and now Bannon had to emulate.

"Nothing-" she muttered once, weakly, but then trying to build up. "Nothing is wrong dear."

The entire group, Marines, Rangers, and refugees had held their breaths and turned to stone.

"Mother, what's wrong with your voice?"

Doc had held onto his hard case with a white knuckled grip, the Rangers and Marines all frozen as the refugees held whatever they did within them.

Once, long ago, Bannon knew how to be a girl, a woman: the person that would've been like her domestic mother and all the fanciful pleasantries of that life. The idea of a mother was something long implanted into Bannon's head, just because she had one.

She was brought up in a white family that had been born and bred from an Empire of its own, rooted in Christian thought that bred the roles of the Western World.

In the end, she would become the long term result.

Her form had slackened, her hips cocking as she cleared her throat, crossing arms as one hand went up to hold her own cheek as she, of all things, giggled. "Oh, don't mind this, dear, I just have a cold from travelling so much."

Whiplash was in Bannon's form as there was no eyepatch around her left eye to hide what was behind it. For once, both eyes were dead inside.

There had been a thermos in Chuka's hand still, her eyes lighting up and ears perking as she approached her "mother", offering it to her. "Drink some of this, mother, Lelei tells me this helps soothe ones throat! It's sorta good too."

Of course Bannon knew that, but still, she had taken the thermos as if it was a new discovery in her life, the cap off and used as a cup as she poured the reddened liquid into it, Chuka looking on expectantly with wide eyes.

The tea had made it passed Bannon's lips, that same taste flowing past her teeth down her gullet. She couldn't enjoy it however, not as, inside, she felt cold as Chuka nodded and laughed and looked at her as if she was the most important woman of her life.

She finished it in one go, her nerves failing her, cap shaking in her hand as she recovered the thermos. "It's-, ah, very good."

And all at once Chuka had hugged her mother again, as if for the first time in a long time.

Sometime after Emerson had a panic attack that night before they were cleared for ops again, Bannon had once muttered to Masterson in some disappointment in their captain: how he collapsed underneath the pressure they all shared supposedly.

Though she understood now, how easy it was to break.

It was never the bullets, the weapons, the explosions and carnage of war: it was the remaining, the shocks, and the stipulations of failure and fate that damned people in each their own way.

The idea that to fight in war and to shoot and be shot at was easy; simple.

Reality was, unfortunately, complicated.

Complicated enough that, in the hug, the thermos dropped from Bannon's hand, and Itami's doubt about her ability to cry was disproven then and there.

* * *

She cried because she didn't want to be a mother. She cried because she had been lowered to Itami's level. She cried because all she thought she would need to do on this hair brained quest for closure was simply kill a dragon. She cried because of that and a hundred other reasons.

She simply cried, muffled sobs and heaves from behind the Ranger Humvee as those that weren't on watch comforted her. It wasn't an outright version of crying, nor was it any subdued, it was just a particular kind of crying which Bannon had been used to: one where she desperately kept her lips tight, thumps coming from her throat that would've been outright sobs, downplayed.

" _ **Bitch ass Ranger**_. What she crying for?" One of the Marines had muttered disdainfully as Perla remained silent by the Marine Humvee. Perla had raised her palm up toward the offending Marine just once, the non-verbal statement to shut up coming over as they kept their peace and simply got ready for whatever travel they were going to do today. When situations got complicated, Marines got simple.

Too simple, perhaps.

In the winding complexities presented by the Rangers to Perla's fireteam, she had adopted her tendencies as old and simply remained by their Humvee, looking on, drawing themselves back from the world.

The Rangers understood Bannon's reaction to a point however. She _**was**_ an ex-wife, beaten and battered and all the abuse she had taken had been molded into her character as a soldier. For something to dig into her like that, so abruptly, her reaction was understandable if nothing else.

Wilbur and most of his tank crew had taken Chuka and distracted her under the guise of a walk among the stones that morning, keeping her away from their camp site as Bannon broke down. Breakfast was ruined, but there was no such thing as normal out there on their crusade.

Breakfast had been tea and Maraschino cherries, the cherries having found their way into Lelei's pack by her newest assistant and all of his cheeky volition. It was almost sweet enough to justify whatever smiles there had been on that morning.

Itami had been promptly knocked out by Bannon's volition, her own fist taking the man down in the rage that no one had the tenacity to prevent, but he had come to soon enough. It was done the second Chuka had been drawn away, the crack of fist on face unkind to all those who saw.

While everyone had been looking at Itami get knocked out however, no one had seen Rory recoil, a spurt of blood and her tooth coming out of her mouth as she stifled a groan.

The bond had worked, the contract was in place. Its first used concealed by the very fact that the apostle did not want to complicate the already strenuous situation.

Perhaps she should've said something however. Perhaps she should've let Bannon have the knowledge that Itami could be beat to death and have nothing happen to him.

That wasn't what was done though. What was done was simply giving Bannon space as those without the know were educated.

Dixie was told the story of what exactly was Chuka's problems by the Rangers as those that remained were in silence. It was something to do.

The man was balding, but he had enough hair for the man to run his hands through it as he looked around once in disbelief, licking his lips. "I tell you what, you're dignified _**motherfucker**_ you know that?" His brown eyes were wide and in disbelief, head cocked and arms held crossed as he looked down to Itami. "By lord, all of you?" he pointed around to the Rangers around him.

Judgement was something that the Rangers had grown numb to. At some point between the Diet hearings and losing Kay to Pina, the criticisms of their own minds fell away along with the rest of the world's.

 _"My ex, man, she told me that we don't got the right to be here. She sent me like, five pages why."_

Ramirez had barely grunted as he looked up from his San Francisco newspaper during that day in the Fromar Keep, in between paperwork and looking at Masterson train Rory and the MPs how to shoot from the balcony.

Ortiz had been hung up on his ex-girlfriend dropping their relationship for the distinct reason that he had no real opinion about his role in the Special Region. It was explicitly stated, by the Japanese government, that the Ranger squad that had been in Italica did a great deal for its defense.

It didn't help that, for a brief moment as an elf, a goddess, and a mage made their plea for the Special Task Force, the lens had captured all of Hitman.

 _"Her judgement isn't wrong, Ortiz" he started with all the wiseness that three invasions, several insurgencies, and a race riot could afford him. "But your judgement here, is different than her judgement there. Don't let it control you son."_

 _"Easier said than done you old fuck."_

Doc had curled his free fist. He was disappointed with himself after all this time with attending to Chuka, and that blame had been put on him as much as it had been on Itami, the rest of the Rangers keeping their heads down as they sipped their tea that the elf in question made for them as well.

"We were under orders." he spoke simply.

Dixie had gotten in the Ranger's face, disgust being written like the laugh lines on his own. " _ **You're the god damned medic**_ , sir, he shouldn't have jack shit opinion over medical matters!" His finger had poked Doc's chest as the man took it like a punch and only looked away. A few of the Rangers had shifted uncomfortably, by instinct, toward a weapon.

The Marine was right however.

But yet Doc had his side note. "Do you understand, Marine, what exactly that girl is capable of?" he asked, almost pleadingly before pointing over to Rory and Lelei, the two refugees the nearest to Bannon. She was standing against the Ranger Humvee, one arm stuck between metal and her and the other raised to her face as she fought herself and what she felt in between almost murderous sobs and tears. "Forget Lelei, or the Reaper, but _**her**_?"

Dixie had taken offense as to being called Marine by the Ranger. It went far beyond branch rivalries at this point.

"She's just a stepped on sunflower, ain't she?" he went on sarcastically. "She ain't no different than any other girl with a depressing story!" Dixie cocked his hips.

Doc shook his head fast, mouthing his no's and negatives, notepad out.

"She isn't just a girl. She's a high elf-" A part of Doc had paused as he realized what kind of tirade he was about to launch into, but alas. "She's a being who can yield incredible power just by the grace of her fingertips and a few magic words, an incredibly young one at that, who hardly understands what she can do."

"Sounds like horseshit to me."

Doc's hand had clenched as she brought it up to his chest, wound up tight. "She will pry the skin off of you alive and rip out your brain from your ears if she breaks down. She is a _**ticking time bomb**_."

Dixie was a man who had been to Afghanistan, administrations ago. He knew what a ticking time bomb truly was as his tank rolled through Kabul on basic missions that were supposed to be as peaceful as they got. _**"You're the people who put the fucking bomb on her!"**_

"It was him though!" Loke had pointed down to Itami's unconscious body, very much into the conversation. Her favorite squad lead, after all, had been broken down.

Dixie had waved his arms out, as if surprised, disgusted. It didn't matter. "When fucking insurgents strap a suicide vest onto a kid and tells them that salvation is that way, right next to that patrol squad, do you think we blame the motherfucker who physically put the vest on them? _**No!**_ We blame the entire organization!"

"Oh," Black had almost yelled sarcastically from where he was. Those who hadn't wanted to deal with the bullshit had retreated to their vehicles, but none could escape the problem entirely. "So we're no better than jihadist terrorist now!?"

Dixie had flicked Black off at his position on top of the Humvee. "I don't need to compare shit! Can't you get it through your whiskey tango foxtrot, Special Operations Command, somehow elevated skulls that this is wrong!?"

The shouting match between the Kingdom Come's driver and Doc had elevated, but none of it had reached the three women by the side of a Humvee.

Lelei had a hand on Bannon's hip, the other around her staff, if only to keep contact with her as if she was liable to sink into the earth.

She looked to Rory and spoke their language. Bannon was fluent, however not in this particular instance. She had told Lelei herself during drills where they would shout their commands in Lingua Franca for training. The heat of the moment usually never impaired her, however juggling languages was beyond her. "Have you seen anything like this happen before, Rory?"

Rory pursed her lips as she looked up at Bannon, the woman still heaving silently, eyes and face buried in her arm, itself leaning against the Humvee.

"To lie is deceitful. To lie to one's self is disgraceful." She said simply in her voice. What wiseness there was was hidden behind years she would never experience. "The souls I collect are supposed to be, in some way, the truth of their nature. Bannon does not enjoy this anymore than I do."

"…So you don't see this often?"

"I have lived nearly a millennia, Lelei. And yet still I will ascend knowing nothing about everything that could be. There will always be a first time for everything," Rory looked back toward Arnus. "Especially nowadays."

"No advice, apostle?" Lelei asked again.

Rory could only shake her head, her gaze interrupted by a vulnerable woman she had seen capable of being an equal. Her fists were clenched tight into balls, frustration and unexplainable sadness taking her over. It radiated from her like heat from a flame. It was almost unbearable as Lelei simply kept her touch on Bannon, as if she knew she would appreciate it.

She did, not that she could show it at that moment, forehead against the bulletproof glass of the Humvee, breath painting it a faded white where it touched. Her breathing was ragged as it always was, but it felt right to her.

"She wore a cross on her necklace, Rory." Lelei said once, gripping her staff. "Small, silver." She remembered.

"The crucifix." Rory knew, looking at the nape of Bannon's neck and how tempted she was to give her the contract. "They say it would have saved a wretch like her." She quoted Lumaban and how she would, once or twice as she had taught that tune to the locals of the Corridor, slip into the English words of a hymn that was so unlike that of her own God.

It spoke of forgiveness from conviction and suffering. Yet none was found here.

"Hmm?"

"It is the religion of a God named Christ, as I understand." And here she was, an Apostle, speaking of a god that was not her own. "I was led to believe there no such thing as God, in there world."

"Why not Rory?"

Rory had tsked at Lelei. "I thought you would know, young mage." She shook her head disappointed, but also ashamed in some aspect. "With the way you've studied there world, I'm sure you can deduct some comparison between ours and theirs."

20,000 dead at Italica. 60,000 dead at Ginza and the conquest to retake Arnus Hill. The Empire couldn't kill that many people on their own even if they tried. The Gods would not allow it.

Though Lelei knew why the people from Earth, the United States of America and Japan, could let it happen.

"They live in a godless world."

Rory nodded, knowingly. "I know you want to live in their world, Lelei, or, at least, bring an aspect of their world here so you can control it. But me? I can't. There's no place for me there."

"But you can make one, apostle." Lelei pressed on, suddenly more interested in Rory's words than her constituent's crying. They way her eyebrows had shifted downward it almost seemed like she had thought Lelei the same as her in some aspect.

The apostle simply grazed the area around her mouth where a tooth had been knocked out by Bannon, indirectly. She looked up at the woman that the both of them had been attending to, trying to comfort. "Not with people like them in this world." All the apostle could do was look at her neck and how palatable it was to her: to bite. She hadn't been like the bloodsuckers of the upper continent, or derived anything in particular by ingesting blood, but her contracts were made by the blood of her chosen. She did not know truly why she didn't clamp down on Bannon as she did with Itami, and all she saw was the absence of the thin silver chain she had seen before on her. "So, tell me about this necklace of hers, Lelei."

Lelei's hand had come to her own necklace: the 9mm round that had been there since she picked it up during Italica. No one had questioned it, she was "safe", to the Marines and the JSDF.

" _It was her cross to bear_."

"And yet she gave it to a slave in Akusho?" Emerson told Rory.

Slowly, as the two were talking, Bannon's sobs had disappeared, only replaced by the dry breaths, tainted with anger and contempt. It burned within her, coursing through her blood, brought out by years of an unkind world.

She finally opened her eyes, staring back at herself with the reflection of the Humvee's bulletproof glass.

"Ain't nobody gonna tell me who I'm going to be. _**Ain't nobody**_." She had ground out through her teeth, her resolution, her anger rising. "Rory, get their attention."

Dixie hadn't gotten any less hysterica in the background as he and Doc argued, the rest of the Rangers holding their heads down in a shame they never knew they had. "You're wrong. And you! And you! And this nip bastard right here! I don't have to be a doctor to tell you that _**you are fucking with a mentally ill person's wellbeing**_. Jesus Christ!"

A sniffle, the shift of a halberd, it drew the attention to the oldest one there. Rory had cocked her hips as she looked to the ground, her usual idle face of deviousness and snark gone with an apprehensiveness that even she did not like. She craved the carnal emotions of rage and fury. Though this, however, was different.

This was disgust and contempt.

Tankers were often fast on the trigger, and Dixie had matched his words with it.

 _"And you! You're a grown ass adult in the god damn military dealing with the problems of a little girl!_ _ **What are you crying for!?"**_ In anger-caused hastiness he had let it fall from his mouth as she re-entered. _"Ah, fuck,_ didn't mean it ma'am."

" _ **Did you, Marine?**_ "

Just for a second, all that rage had disappeared from Bannon as she grabbed at the nape of her neck, her other hand holding her face as her voice faltered in an intensely emotional creak that none had heard from her before.

It was the sound of hopelessness.

Wars started in the hearts of people. The once incorruptible fortress of men and women penetrated and torn asunder from the complications of conflict.

This war was one like no other: their battle, one with the Flame Dragon, only an aspect of it that they owned alone.

So, it was perhaps fitting, in some dark contrast, that this battle of assumed identities was fought, and Bannon wanted with all her heart to not be a casualty.

Dixie, in his southern hospitality, could not muster words meaningful enough to say anything to make up. If he were to fight her reasoning, it would be no better than admitting the faults of what they were doing: which is to say all of this was wrong, and they should've turned around back to Arnus, back to Ginza, back to America and remain there.

Though he could not feel true pity for the woman. In the end, with all wars, her feelings did not matter. Her suffering was worthless. It would not be remembered by the larger picture and so she would rot from the inside out so as to keep society sane.

Wars keep going regardless of the tears shed. Regardless of the emotions felt.

"Sergeant Bannon, out of lack of any other option, I'll tell you what my original TC told me: Sometimes you just have to be who you have to be, even for just a little while."

There was no doubt about it: her left eye looked dead to the casual observer. When she looked up from her hands and felt those words, they offered a look into her soul at that point.

She sniffled once, spitting something on the ground as she ground out in frustration.

 _ **"Fuck it."**_ She had kicked at the metal frame of the Humvee once. "Harris, smoke. _**Now.**_ "

Doc's eyes had shot open even larger as he heard those words from Bannon. She'd always been a non-smoker to the T. "Sergeant Bannon?"

There was resignation as she had taken the stick from an unsure Harris, the man offering his lighter in all of its vulgarity to her as she took it within her ungloved hands. "Look, Lamareux, my voice is already fucked, I don't think this'll do much more to it."

No argument could be given, no words could be said to a woman wronged. The cigarette had gone between her chapped lips, held by them as she had lit it as if she had been doing it her entire life.

Not a hack, not a cough: all the smoothness of a woman who was mean enough to need a cigarette.

It was her first cigarette at that.

"So this is where we are now." Dixie had went on, hand on his forehead. "Up a creek, carrying no paddle, and the circus."

"No," the voice. The cold voice of reason from a girl who would not, in another world, wield the authority she did now. "We are half a day's travel from the border of Italica's holdings with the Elbe Fiefdom with what I understand to be a combat-capable unit."

Bannon had smirked at Lelei's tenacity, propping her up

"We're combat-capable, respectfully, ma'am," Dixie had motioned toward Kingdom Come. "But are we willing?" The man had adjusted his tone to the nouveau noble as she had stood at Bannon's side. Perhaps it was Dixie's own mistake, but he had always thought of her only as a girl that just got caught up with the ride and nothing else.

He was wrong, but what Lelei said was something that had been par for course with Lelei's reasonings. It only got Dixie's attention more that she had spoken it and his name in American English.

"Let me ask you, Corporal Doherty, does the emotional troubles of all orphans in wars affect the combat readiness of a tanker?"

Dixie smacked his lips once, hands on his hips with a tilted head. "Fuck no." It never did. Not for Dixie, driving his tank through the burnt wreckage of Iranian BMPs and Zulfiqar tanks. The civilian casualties of Open Wind were not a consideration as he put the pedal to the metal and saw an enemy forward. If it was outside his tank back then, it only mattered to him if it was either an enemy, a ditch too far, or if he was at hazard at running over a GI.

"Then what makes the case of Chuka Luna Marceau any different?"

"Because, she's right here! In front of me!"

"And no other person of another country, in the places America has gone, has ever put you in the same position? Have you never seen someone in need of help in front of you and didn't help?"

Dixie looked over to Lumaban's fireteam, their turn to now look down at the ground in shame, kicking at the pebbles and dirt to distract themselves from not answering another question within themselves.

"My job was never to interact with the locals! That's Sergeant Perla's job, and, well-" He cleared his throat. "What English is doing, Hell, I imagine what you Rangers are doing, it's out of line. There's no need to even get caught up in their god damn problems, all we have to do is just stay in the damn tank and-"

"So stay in the _**damn**_ tank." The blue mage quoted, stopping Dixie in his track. "If you're job is to simply drive the tank, do not concern yourself with Chuka, or any of us, for that matter…"

"That's an awful lot to ask of for a man that was dragged along on this dragon hunting quest, ma'am." he said, darkly.

"This Flame Dragon, Dixie," Bannon motioned to the Humvees around them and what weapons were stored within them. "About a dozen plus foot infantry, plus three soft victors, were able to take it down to an inch of its life. Only one launcher and a few forties between us and all the gunfire we had. We're just going to finish the job."

"That's all we're here to do, Dix'," A quiet voice form the Marine Humvee had called out. It was Lumaban, she having the tone of a woman already given up with dealing with this aspect of their mission. "We're just out here killing a dragon. Nothing, nothing less. Only as much as you get involved in."

"We're obligated to do something about shit when it happens though!"

Perla had spit on the ground as she stepped back into the ring. If to ignore the attention Loke had only now began to raise Bannon's fallen bike in the background. "What makes this land so different from Afghan, Dixie? Iran?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is are you really going to change your MO as a Marine just based on where you are?" As said the draftee to the enlisted.

"I don't like where we are, Ranger, but we're already too far into it to not keep going."

"That's the spirit."

He needed the last word if he was to give up however. He **needed** it. "But still, you guys a bunch of sick fucks for playing this game with the elf. At least with Yao she understands that her community was destroyed. At least she knows that she's going to where we're going for revenge. You guys are just going to force it upon Chuka and hopes that's the cure."

"It's a chance we're willing to take, Dixie. Hooah?"

The motivational chant that was almost animalistic in nature. With a scowl on his face and a frown over his mouth, he shrugged. "Oorah."

He walked away now, patting Doc's shoulder on the way back to Kingdom Come to simply lean his back against the mine shield and close his eyes and try not to get too caught up as everyone else simply did.

The good doctor wiped his hands over his forehead, a nod given to his staff sergeant before looking down at the body of Itami, still out. His palm opened with a gesture, suggesting that something be done about the Japanese lieutenant.

Lelei had understood as she had drawn a vial from her satchel. A grounded up substance had been spread on her fingers before being smeared across Itami's upper lip, beneath his nose.

"Smelling salts?" Doc asked, holding her staff for a brief moment as she applied a cure to Itami's ailment.

"Ah, something similar. My step-sister often worked herself into such states and told me to keep these in case of emergency." Lelei hadn't been used to talking much, explaining her methods and thoughts, but she was getting used to it much to Bannon's pleasure. "They are special minerals as prepared by her. I do not know the make-up."

"Whatever works… whatever works.

* * *

"Get the _**fuck**_ up."

Itami woke up as men of readiness always do: all at once.

"Bannon?" he said meekly, as if he had shrunken as a man as the woman had grabbed his collar and raised him up. "Woah!"

He had height on him, but everyone, bar Chuka, had been below her. The high horse she rode on was one that was allowed to her out of right and rite at that point.

No eyepatch, no shield, no mask put on yet to shield anyone from knowing who Bannon was. No mystery, no secret, it was only her.

"Listen here, Youji." She started, releasing her grip on his collar, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and placing it within Itami's. "I have done a lot of things for my country. I have bled, I have lost, I have suffered, and _**I have killed**_ , for my country. Nowhere, within the deployment papers, the dotted line when I signed my life away, did it specify that I'd have to lie to a little girl about being her mother."

He rubbed the bandage that Doc had applied onto him, coming from Rory's bite. "You're not doing this for your country. You're doing it for her."

And so Agent Beckett's words came around again, a question posed, an idea repeated: "Is she worth it though?"

The breath was taken out of Itami's lungs as he looked at Bannon as a new woman, he having exchanged a smoke with a gasp. She was now, basically, just that. "How could you say that?"

The Marines, tankers and infantry, Perla and her group tilting their heads up had heard that question before. It was a rhetoric once directed toward them that had made them so ambivalent to the troubles of the refugees and Itami.

Who lives, and who dies? Who has that power to decide the answer? Who gave you the right?

The keffiyeh of the Marines had ruffled in the wind from their necks, Ramirez turning away from the whole scene for a second as he winced. They were veterans of a world at war, the survivors of that very question that floated in the air at that very moment: Survivors of wars much greater than the one they were experiencing now on the behest of Japan.

Bannon took the cigarette out his mouth and into her own.

"Who are you to decide the worth of her life?" he grinded through his teeth.

Bannon nearly bit the filter. "Because it puts _**mine**_ at hazard!"

Involuntarily some of the Marines had nodded from afar.

Out on the field it was always the stern belief that it was either me or you. Bannon chose the choice that almost every veteran of Iran, Afghanistan, Korea, and more had chosen. She could not be wrong for saying so, even if Itami had huffed coldly, tiredly.

There was no use arguing, he thought, his mind adding in one last thing: _**There's no use arguing with Americans**_.

"Will you be Chuka's mother, until we kill that dragon? That is what I am asking of you. Not what your country is asking, but what I am asking, on behalf of her."

An indignant expression crossed over Bannon's face. She had no choice, this far down the hole. She wasn't about to make him feel any better about it though. "Hodor, whoever his wife was, they die with the lie. Comprende?"

Itami had backed off a bit, teeth clenched, a hand gone into his black hair to rub through. If only Risa could've known about this, it would've made a hell of a story for her. That was how he backed up with this absurdity and seriousness: the Marine tankers gave him scrutiny, Bannon had been disappointed with him to a supreme, and the Rangers looked at them; at him, with such a gaze of shame that it reminded him…

It reminded him of his own mother.

It reminded him of how she looked at him, at that last dinner before she poured that dinner's unused oil over her and struck a match.

He failed his mother, and now, here, he asked someone to be a mother in turn with those same feelings already on him.

His hands went to his phone instinctually, as if reaching for its contents, as if the downloaded pdf files would've saved his soul from her.

The hand fell short however as he sucked in air through his nose and choked out a breath. "Yes, fine. _Comprende_."

Dixie couldn't do anything more. Not when all he had left was, not his obligations as a person, but rather that of a duty soldier. "I'm gonna have to go through the chain of command when we get back and report all this."

Itami's eyes sunk even further as Bannon turned toward the southern tanker. "Do what you will Dixie, and thank you."

The thank you had taken Dixie off guard, but Bannon had been thanking him for not the threat of bureaucracy. For what he couldn't tell, but he could be grateful that she had been civil to him as opposed to Itami, squaring his back and nodding at her. He went for his radio while heading back to Kingdom Come. _"Hey, you guys alright?"_

Bannon took another drag of the smoke, Doc looking away as he kicked at the grass, his hand opening and closing before going to his mouth and looking at where they were now.

"You okay Doc?" his staff sergeant asked. He had only slung the hard case over his back and into his bag before shaking his head.

"I'm fine." he clarified, walking away and leaving the lieutenant with his would be wife.

"Thank you." Itami started.

"Save it." she said snappily, looking at the cigarette between her fingers as she tried to get used to how well it filled her mouth, her lungs, filling in between her teeth. "How much do you know about Hodor's wife?"

"Other than the fact she's dead? None." He shook his head. "I mean. I know her name. It was Nara."

Bannon rose her eyebrow as Loke walked by them, handing Bannon her fallen eyepatch before returning to whatever vestiges of breakfast were left. "Is that all?"

Itami gave the smallest shake of his head. "Unfortunately."

"Alright, then, well, tell me about _Hodor_ then."

* * *

The modern bow which Chuka had bought at Ginza during the last Holiday season had still been with her, tucked away with the other weapons as clear as day. It was her understanding that Hodor would let her use the rifle that was owned by…

She blanked on her name, but she had assumed her mother had now owned that rifle. She had used it already, and was good at it, as said Uncle Masterson, and she was sure her father would let her use it more often.

"Lee-Enfield." Wilbur had said with all the familiarity a man from a man raised between Glasgow and London could muster. "Yeah, it came from the Kingdom where I was born, you see." He went on as Yao had handled his knightly sword, sharpening it against a rock as they stayed away from the convoy for obvious reasons.

Wilbur had taken Yao, Schmack, and Chains out with Chuka so as to distract her as Bannon obviously needed her reprieve from having a motherly responsibility dropped on her. It was good to get away from it anyhow, he justified to himself, less for him to know and worry about.

Schmack had sat absent mindedly on top of one of the many rocks in that clearing they settled in for the night, beanie on and his rifle in his hand, trying to be as on guard as he could, back toward the group and looking out at the plains. He still gave his two cents. "Skipping the crossbow and going for the gun? Seems a bit… much, don't you think Miss Marceau?"

Wilbur had lent Chuka his own M4, magazine out and the one round out of the chamber as Chuka sighted down range. It was an odd visage to see, but not odder than the revolver on Rory's hip at that point.

"My mother, she always told me to never impose such limitations on yourself if it's for the safety of those around you." She chicken-winged the grip, her right elbow almost parallel with the ground, stock in her shoulder. Speaking of her mother seemed frank, as if she was alive. As if she was around.

"Chuka, bring your right elbow down, almost tuck it against your side." Chains had said, essentially teaching her how to hold the rifle.

The sound of metal on stone being sharpened hadn't been a new sound, but it was the only sound that existed other than the wind and the slight murmuring of tankers trying to teach Chuka how to hold an assault rifle, the alternative being to give her cold turkey to reality.

Yao's own distraction from the events that transpired this morning had been the refinement of the blades in the group. The combat knives of the tankers and Wilbur's sword had been neatly in one of her holsters if she had been done with them. It was something they allowed, even if they would, never in a million years they imagined, would use them.

It was something to distract everyone.

The dark elf looked up at Wilbur, handing him back his sword, sitting on his cape atop the rock and constantly glancing back at the victor collection.

"Dixie seems to have been caught up in this." She observed from afar, just barely hearing the man's shouts at the Ranger medic. Those larger ears were good for something, Wilbur thought, touching them for a second affectionately.

"You know how I think of things deary, if I'm not tanking toward them, I'm going away from them." Said the man who fled his country after deleting so much data from the BP survey groups that it was investigated for environmental terrorism. Trail never led back to him, but only because he had such a well behaved surveyor during his time in Big Oil. "Besides, one elf is enough for me."

Schmack looked away as the dark elf and his tank commander had did an Eskimo kiss. He didn't approve much of what he had done, and what they were doing now, but killing a dragon was something he tried to hype himself up for.

Why the fuck Wilbur and Yao had fallen for each other was probably out of an almost mathematical inevitability, one that Wilbur exemplified as he mounted his gifted sword on his belt and fluttered out his cape. This was a fairy tale and Wilbur was the knight, Yao: the damsel in distress.

Schmack went for a cigarette swiftly, lighting it and looking away from it all and the blue skies above.

After the service he had been a man who wanted to reverse everything about himself and distance who he had been during the fall of Iraq. He went from a man who smelled of grease and oil to a man who exhumed the aura of education. This was to say he had gotten educated to the point where people could hardly believe he was a rough and tumble loader of an Abrams tank during the most savage days of the Forever War.

He had gotten educated to the point where he too, had a title like Wilbur.

To the point where he had been invaluable to an ex-President Dirrel's orders and a contingency plan.

Still he couldn't complain. Not when he was here now. Not in a sandbox, but rather a fantasy land where Rome still existed and not a caliphate.

"Hey, you guys alright?" The three tankers attending to Chuka had stopped for a second as they went for their radios. It was Dixie.

Wilbur had answered. "Ranger didn't pull your teeth out Dix?"

There was a breath of exasperation behind the radio as they looked over back to the vehicles, Dixie climbing on top of Kingdom Come and looking out to them back, radio in hand. "Unfortunately not. But you guys should keep Miss Marceau out there for a bit. I'll advise when you can come back and why."

"Copy Dixie." A thumbs up was flashed towards the tank as Wilbur received copying nods from the remaining tankers. "Well, guess something's happened."

"What's happened? Is Mom okay?" Chuka lowered her rifle for a second to address Wilbur, curiously aware of how she was handling the gun. She learned by imitation. Weeks of observing the Rangers train making it so her long index finger was off the trigger entirely in a noted show of discipline.

She wore Itami's uniform jacket, the camouflage painting her as another role that she was not.

"Yeah, yeah, lass." Wilbur looked away for a second. "Mom just had a bad dream, you know, with the war and all that."

Chuka's ear had twitched on its own as her face became empty for a second, and then thoughtful. "Well, it's a good thing we're taking a vacation to the South to Yao's village, right?"

"Soldiers on vacation… yeah right." Schmack muttered to himself.

Wilbur popped a piece of Nicorette into his mouth as he poked Schmack's side with the long sheath of his sword. "I'm sorry Mister Workaholic. Ain't my fault we got to sit still for a bit."

"There's a time and place, English. Time and place for everything."

The sound of clicking had been evident in the air, Chains, in an attempt to distract Chuka further, drawing his own sidearm, teaching her how to handle a rifle on the move.

It wasn't any different from tanking in a sense: the gun was the turret if you thought of the legs as treads.

"You haven't even let me hold one of your weapons, Alton." Yao had said with a little shade, a little envy. The Englishman only shook his head.

"Second you pick up a gun, I guarantee you ain't gonna do good with it."

"Then what happened when you first picked one up?" Yao leaned in to Wilbur. Despite the affection Wilbur had froze his gaze and remembered.

He wasn't even a Marine yet. Just one of BP's men tailing another invasion into Iraq, putting out oil fires and helping dig new wells to replace them. When the Caliphate came at night to stamp out those new wells, all he had was a dirty AK left behind to try and scare them off.

That was what happened the first time he picked up a gun. That was perhaps why he decided to become a Marine after his exile to America.

"I wasn't given the luxury to deny. Is all. You shouldn't have to fight if you're not needed to."

This wasn't tanker talk, Schmack had thought. Tanker talk was the obscene, the unrelated. Not the now and the bullshit of where they were. It was the talk of home, of the wet pussy back home, of the memes and the novelties of civilized culture that they protected and of the ridiculous nature of those that hadn't been them.

This was no fun at all, rifle in hand as someone had a mental breakdown behind them.

"English." Schmack had said after a drag and ten or so minutes or respectful silence, Chains trying his best to train a wood elf how to use an M4 without actually popping off any shots.

"Ye Schmack?"

"You a fan of Buffalo Wings?"

"Not in particular. Ain't a fan of spicy."

"Ah, well, just one of those weird cravings I've had, recently. I mean, it's not like the Mess has 'em. Or even the Corridor." he grumbled. "I remember, back in Afghanistan… before Kabul fell, there was this chicken farmer that always would be around this one PB we did runs near. "Cock-a-doodle" the guard there used to call him."

"What? This guy give you some chickens to cook up?"

Schmack winced, shaking his head. "Nah. Just, well, I mean, yeah we did eat his chicken in the end but we never got it from him."

"Oh yeah?"

Another drag. "Taliban came down one day, few days after word had spread that Baghdad fell. The PB was right on that new frontline as the ANA fell apart. Took us a long while to mobilize back over there, thinking they could've done it by themselves."

"Did they?"

"Course not. Figure some of them were already itching to turn against us and what not. Not Cock-a-doodle though. He liked us. Tali knew that he did. Liked to stick around us enough so his chickens stayed alive."

"He dead?"

Schmack didn't even move the cigarette from his lips fully as he spoke, hand cupping over it. There were details he didn't care to explain; to tell: How his feet were cut off and his body was catapulted into the PB naked, still alive. "Yeah. He was dead." He couldn't but help wonder if the image of Cock-a-doodle was just the generic idea of an old Middle Eastern Farmer, or if he did actually looked as his memory told him. He only remembered over one thing however. "His chickens were dead too, luckily."

"You ate a dead man's chicken?"

Schmack shrugged, remembering that night his tank had finally got there and how relieved the Marines that had been already entrenched were for the Abrams. Perhaps Yao and her village would've felt the same when Kingdom Come had actually came.

"Fiery, burning, hot chicken wings. That's what I'd love right now."

Yao, all the while, had only looked on. What English she knew making Schmack's musing about war and food seem even more obscene. It was concerning almost. "Schmack, are you okay?"

He didn't like it when she said his tanker name. He didn't like it when she tried to understand him. He didn't like her at all.

Smoke. Drag. Shake of the head. "I'm fine."

Yao didn't believe that at all, but Schmack wasn't going to let her talk to him. There was no reason for her to get caught up with him.

 _"Alright, you guys are clear. I'll explain the situation once we're buttoned up."_

* * *

The tankers had walked up with the elf, returning to the fold, Chains forgetting to grab his rifle from Chuka as she had followed them.

It took the Marines some time to finally accept that some locals were allowed to hold firearms, the memory of the ANA still fresh in some of their mind, a decade later still. Eventually however, at least with the STALMP, they did get used to it.

It wasn't like Rory's MP's had aimed at any of them yet.

Even Rory's usage of her own gun had been… acceptable, in the long perspective.

Bannon and Itami had stood civilly, side by side, but even the timidity that Bannon had assumed after her length info session regarding her next husband was knocked off upon seeing their daughter with a rifle.

She didn't need to have an assumed identity to get tripped up as she did, Itami's own grimacing shared as she rounded the corner around Kingdom Come.

"Who the hell gave you that Chuka?" Itami had called out in what he assumed to be fatherly concern.

"Ah, sorry my man." Chains had been quick to own up to it as he scooped the rifle out of Chuka's arms quick, slinging it over his back. "I'm sure your Ma and Pa there can set you up with something more appropriate, right?"

Chains never was the one to be sensitive, so he took the situation full swing. Dixie wouldn't have it though. "Boy get your black ass back in here before I smack it."

"Oh great, hick from 'Bama wants to do this man in, ain't that right?"

"My daughter doesn't need to hear this Wilbur." The man couldn't argue. Mother knew best after all as the man practically dragged Chains back to the tank, about to be briefed by Dixie about what sorta deal went down.

Naturally Chuka split off and back to in front of her parents. None the wiser of the fact that both were dead in all actuality. She walked up in concern, as any child would to a screaming, kicking parent beating the snot out of the other.

"Did Father make you mad last night, Mother?" She should have been righteously mad, Bannon knew. She had every right to be. And yet….

 _ **Die with the lie.**_

Ever gradually she had wrapped an arm around Itami, her hands drifting to his waist as she leaned back, holding onto him still, pulling her lower body against his. "Hodor tried to get lucky with my last night, honey. Is all. Isn't that right dear?"

The anger of God, the fury of Hell, hath no fury like a woman's. That is what Itami had seen in Bannon's faded eye as he finally knew what it was like. He gulped once as he had assumed the face Bannon put on herself: one of the husband and wife. "Oh come on, don't say such things in front of our daughter."

Her hands had tightened around what she held painfully, Itami wincing. "Oh, just you wait and see what I'll do to you when no one's looking."

* * *

Chuka was told to ready herself for travel, the refugees more or less escorting her to the Humvee. Whatever assumed normality that this crusade was supposed to have was back again as all that were left were simply the Special Task Force and its soldiers, waiting at ease.

"I doubt Nara ever rode a bike." Itami was uncomfortable to say, but he didn't have a choice as Bannon grunted in agreement, hand going up and twirling a circle with her index finger. The Rangers congregated fast around them.

She looked to Ramirez, the man ready as always. "Alright, Sergeant Ramirez, in light of my predicament, I am transferring over lead of our unit to you whenever Chuka is in presence. Understood."

The older man had nodded once. "Yes ma'am." He was well qualified. "You guys confirm?"

"Sergeant." The rest of Hitman had nodded and affirmed. Bannon unclipped her M4 from her side, handing it over to Harris. The undressing had started then afterwards. Plate carrier, knee pads, rigs and harnesses. They all fell off Bannon down to her bare ACU, a knife taken off and her name patch over her chest sliced off in short order.

Itami didn't wear much else, and so she had to emulate, all the way down to the Enfield that was now the only weapon on her.

She handed the equipment to Loke, the woman taking it gingerly underneath her arm, the last piece of herself that had been distinctly Bannon stuffed into her pocket: her eye patch.

"How do I look?"

"Business casual." Black snarked. Seeing Bannon in her hair down was jarring, but seeing both her eyes exposed at the same time had also been worrying. "How's the vision?"

She closed her left eye a few times, comparing with and without as Doc did his usual routine, flashlight to her eye and a poke to the pupil. "Well, I wouldn't trust you to drive, Sergeant Bannon."

She snickered for only a second. "Thanks Doc."

"You'll be riding with me then?" Itami asked, uncomfortably.

"I don't got much of a choice, do I?" He only nodded at that, accepting of it.

"Loke, take my bike, I'm riding with Itami."

She had nodded promptly. "Yes ma'am." There was a time when the masks went on, and a time when the masks went off. The masks were put on now. The character of was Hitman gone, hidden behind the role they played.

"Alright then, sooner we get this done, sooner this lie dies." That was an order, and all at once they dispersed and got ready.

"Pop the trunk in the Humvee, I've got trail." Harris had sounded off as two of the Rangers popped the tan boot of the car, Black getting the M2 up and ready.

One by one the cars, the vehicles, the turrets and guns, were all prepped and loaded, the roar of the modern machines bringing to bear on that flat plain.

 _"This is Hitman 2-2 to Warlord 1-3, we're oscar mike. Ready her up."_

 _"You in charge now Ramirez?"_

 _"At times, yes."_

Wilbur had locked his hatch down out of habit as the turbines of Kingdom Come rolled up, Dixie doing his job despite it all. Before Schmack could close his own a black hand had reached down and tapped onto his shoulder.

It was Yao, and after she had gotten his attention she had clamped her hands over her ears. He had only nodded as the spare tanking helmet came out and over her head. She was riding up top this time around.

Bannon had opened the door into the back of Itami's Humvee, greeted with the smiling vision of Rory and Chuka. Lelei hadn't shown much of it, but that was normal, and with Itami in the front seat and Rory in shotgun, here she was:

Another addition to what many casual observers would call a harem.

 _"Riding here for a change, mother?"_

And so she sat across from her adopted daughter, while a young mage looked between them in silence, the Apostle of Death in shotgun as the Man in Green rode on toward their goal.


	41. 2-19: Ebb and Flow

A/N:

 _ **Warhusky -**_ Thanks for the kind words and binge read earlier, it's quite an accomplishment for someone to stomach half a million words in one go, ain't it? Anyway, Lumaban, as I've stated before, is a donated OC to this story. However there's something more to her I've been able to formulate in my mind: She's Filipino, yes, and the Philippines have had a marked role in the title of this story: American Manifest Destiny and Imperialism. Perhaps to bring it around has become my goal here: to have Lumaban exert herself as a product of not only American imperialism, but also perform it in turn.

She's a good woman though, make no doubts about it.

 _ **TheTurthWrath** _ \- Thanks for reading so far, and you'll be among friends here. I'm sure you know of Faust and his foray as a Marine veteran into Gate, and I would recommend reading Here We Go Again. If my characters feel human, and I do thank you for reiterating that, then Faust's story might very well seem real to you, for his characters are real people, portrayed in a way only he could. know.

I sometimes wish I could go back to the simpler events of Gate just to continue writing my trio of lead Rangers in a way that wouldn't tax them as people, and instead have them be themselves truly, but that wouldn't be a story I feel would be worth writing...

Anyway, if you have a story you want to tell, I'm more than willing to listen to you, that's what I owe you as a service man.

 _ **In General**_ \- fuck, I just want to get back to writing fight scenes

* * *

 _ **Section 2-19**_

 _ **Posted on 1/5/17**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart - Warlord 1-3's Unit - Near the Border of the Elbe Fiefdom**_

* * *

Doc was the one who had inherited Bannon's M45, stuffing it into the chest holster he had made for the Luger. He had racked his head, and the slide of the handgun for that matter, over where that Luger had ended up. The lapse of memory he had that final night in the capital had him believe that the Luger was still in the Devil's House, but he couldn't be sure. Wherever it was, he imagined, it was safe.

Harris's AK-12 had been laying on the dashboard nonchalant as the convoy had bounced away from the plains, Ramirez and Loke with their motorbikes on point. It was Itami's Humvee that had been behind them, flanked by the ATVs ridden by Ortiz and Annel.

There was nothing to talk about but the mission, and it was preferable for that to be talked about then let silence take hold. Not even music would've been appropriate.

The amount of ammo and weapons they had carried in the back had been felt in the suspension. The Humvee was not liking it at all, and, perhaps was the reason why Ramirez wanted to ride on a bike. It was a highly volatile mix. A literal powder keg he would've liked to avoid.

Convoys like this had made him antsy in Korea: travelling up from Busan in a rag tag band of American soldiers to Seoul to try and desperately reinforce the city. They had gotten there the day before it fell to North Korea. Just in time to become a part of Blackburn's guerilla force and fight street by street, night by night, to try and make a difference before the allied forces came.

It was he being on the flip side: ambushing North Korean APCs and troop carriers in the claustrophobic streets of South Korea's capital, that had made him wary of being inside of the Humvees at all.

Black would disagree with his insecurities at that moment: still out on the open plains.

If war had been like this, the newer Rangers had thought, then what had been all the hubbub with the Middle East?

They were logical people however. Logical enough to know that this was their own particular problem that they mistook as a war, dressed in the clothing of warfighters.

"Do you think there will be a Wikipedia article on us? Like, I dunno, a full page, or just a section?" Black had asked down into the Humvee, locking up the Browning and letting go of it. There was no need to be on it other than to look menacing. The question was directed moreso toward Nutt.

The would be teacher had an answer. Two of them, at least. "Depends how bad we fuck this up. Depends on how negatively HQ sees this little road trip of ours." Nutt's frankness had been noted, the man loosening his grip on the wheel and settling back a bit. A worn pen and pencil had been in either his pocket or tucked between his ear and helmet, always writing down something or another in his free time about observations that wouldn't be outright noticed by the visual record they still had been collecting.

"How could we fuck up then?" Harris had muttered tiredly. The boot had been open, a mesh wire put across the back so nothing flew out. It was open for the sake of Harris to be on rear lookout, he sitting facing the wake they left in tracks and tires and dirt kicked up by their vehicles.

"I 'unno. We overdose Chuka with whatever Doc's packing, we accidentally start a war with another state, one of us dies, etcetera etcetera."

"Don't worry about what we can do wrong, Brian, just worry about what we have to do right." Said the good doctor from shotgun. A man who knew surgery had taken that mantra to heart. "Besides. I don't mind if SOCOM makes this little episode of ours some sort of wet work." He poked his mounted camera knowingly.

What these things had seen…

As if killing a dragon qualified as wet work. Even then, whatever it was, they were still going to do it, despite what had transpired that morning. Despite the fact that their team lead had just been reassigned from Ranger NCO to dead wife in short order. It was better to ignore it, the Rangers thought collectively. Just another battlefield complicated like a bullet to the leg, deafness in one ear, soggy socks, forgotten gloves, and whatever menial bullshit that was never supposed to trump up men and women of action like them.

Though that was the insane part of it: wet work was normal to them when they weren't, supposedly, storming fortified positions against odds that stacked them a hundred to one, backed up by nothing but a creed of leading the way. What wet work was on top of it… well, what Rangers were deployed in Mexico had brought back stories of a snake without a head and a land run by business: a leftover from a war on drugs waged before 9/11.

Rangers always got the job done though.

Always; regardless of the _**nature of that job**_.

Marines on the other hand…

Needless to say the Marines and Rangers had hardly crossed over on the same responsibilities.

Poindexter had tapped the fuel gauge in his Humvee, Lumaban's Marines almost the same sort of silent as the Rangers behind them. They had their reason for silence however, and that was the fact most of them had been nodding off and getting what extra shut eye they could, unburdened by emotional issues that an elf had buried into them.

"Something wrong Poindexter?" Lumaban had asked, glancing at the man and the fuel gauge that had drawn his curiosity. Her rifle had been half rested out the window, scanning the horizon, the foreground being nothing but grass and two Rangers in their single manned vehicles on that side of the convoy.

He shook his head. "Nah, just keeping track of how much we got in the tank. I can't imagine the ATVs or the bikes got much juice left in 'em."

There had been a few jerry cans of diesel and gasoline in each of the Humvees for that extra push, and the Abrams had its axillary supply to rely on to _at least_ get to the Schwartz Forest. It perhaps, wouldn't be enough to get back to Arnus however.

That wasn't a consideration for now however. No one had the nerve to tell everyone to stop. Not with tensions already high and Bannon being liable to put a bullet in Itami, Chuka, or herself.

One of the Marines had grumbled angrily in the back. "I don't get why Yao's buddies didn't just simply pack their bags and run, you know. _**Refugees**_ seem to the norm here. Nothing we can't handle."

"Ain't one of the Rangers a refugee anyway?"

"Eh, don't know."

One was. He was with Emerson now, and he was a quiet man. Quiet by nature and nurture. Children who had run away from Kurdistan during Turkey's last attempt to squash them out bore witness to what exactly a member of NATO could do in the days before Iran was invaded and Turkey was made, by force, a staging point for Operation Open Wind.

The Refugee Crisis of the late 2010s had set the stage for the final societal upset which plunged the Western World over the deep end and back into the Middle East one last time. Of all those hundreds and thousands of refugees that had wanted away from a dark place of the world, only a percentile had used it as an excuse to find themselves in the heart of the outside world to strike at it.

Still, one was too many.

All it took was one and all the other vaguely similar incidents had become connected to the large influx of refugees from the Middle East.

Ramirez would know best from the point of view of the authorities. Soon enough as America took in their first blatant refugees from Syria a lot of his calls had been, in San Francisco, increasingly labeled cases that DHS had to look over.

If only because the perpetrator had been either Muslim, Arabic, or any sort of brown that a bystander's implicit bias would've damned them over.

Loke, however, she knew it best from her perspective: a Pakistani-American in Anytown, USA, Michigan.

There was a certain reason why quite a few refugees from the Forever War had eventually settled in Dearborn however: her hometown.

"How the fuck we know how to deal with refugees anyway?" One of the Marines bellyached. "I was too busy blasting Norks and Sandniggers to ever come home and deal with that shit."

An elbow was thrown in the back as Lumaban tuned out. "I mean _**collectively**_ bitch."

"I don't know, Jeremy," Poindexter threw his voice back in sarcasm. "Treating them like human beings maybe."

"Eh, they gotta _**deserve**_ that right from me."

The type of soldier that survived the Forever War and its final stages was, as one of the surviving French Legionnaires of Open Wind had put, "Those who died and were reborn in that conflict were the only ones to come out."

These Marines had come out. With them had been all the nitty gritty sentiments that kept them alive, right or wrong, moral or not. If Colonel Kurtz, as Coppola had the world believe, spoke of the solution to insurgency being men who were moral, and yet in touch with their primeval instincts, then that final solution came finally in practice during the many urban battles of Iran and the re-invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan.

The world had cried foul at exactly what they had to do to survive in the Middle East, but none could name exactly what it was until confronted with it literally again:

It was the execution of Empire.

"I mean," the same Marine tried to justify to himself, saying those words aloud. "-you turn the world upside down, put us in that world, what do you figure will happen? Between me and the world who's going to change? _You just gotta adjust man_."

Poindexter snarled disappointedly. "I thought us Marines change the world, not the other way around."

It was both, they knew, but they didn't like to think of themselves changed because of the wars. Wars were wars and they would come to pass, and, at the other end of it, they hoped to be the same. They felt normal in the middle of it, most of them, but they had too late realized that only when they were removed did they start actually processing what they had done and seen.

There was only one conscious difference that the Marines deployed there had known existed between them and the Empire: and that was simply equipment. The rest had been similarities on some measure.

It was that one difference that kept them afloat and the enemy at usually a hundred or so feet away.

"I remember, this graffiti in Pashto I saw over there: " _ **Death is no longer terrifying. This life is.**_ ""

"Yeah, well, shit sucked over there Poindexter." An understatement.

"I mean, you'd think after twenty years that wouldn't be the case."

One of the Marines had reached up and grabbed Poindexter's shoulder, hard. "Did you fucking kill kids while over there? You rape and pillage? Did you-"

Perla took in a sharp breath.

" _Fuck off_ , you know the answer." Poindexter shook his shoulder, and the hand came off.

"No? Well you don't got shit to worry about. You were trying to make things better. _**We all were.**_ "

Which was why the Taliban now ran Afghanistan and there had been a permanent US Military base in Baghdad. The nickname for it had been a scathing, both by locals and those deployed: "Little America".

That was what the US did to make things better.

"God I don't know if you're an idiot Poindexter, or just too good for this world." Perla had growled into the glove that cupped the lower half of her face, adjusting her keffiyeh. "Homefront dealt with refugees while we figured out what the hell to do with the people that had made the refugees."

"As if we've been home lately."

The Marine fireteam lead had spent most of her adult life as a Marine abroad, and it was only now that the draftees of the American 2022 draft had started to peel back into society after fighting in Iran and Korea. It was something that Perla herself hadn't been looking forward to. She had missed out on half a decade of being a civilian with the wars, missed out, in a peaceful world, on the years where she would've gotten whatever degree she had decided on.

Was that time wasted? Well, she wasn't exactly sure. Though she didn't want to sit down and find out: to finally start that transition from one life to another after having experienced what she did.

"What the hell are you all talking about? _You've all been home_."

Perla had turned her head over his shoulder at her driver. "For months at a time, but not entirely. You know that Poindexter." she chided him.

"Better than nothing." He shrugged in return. "Least I get to go home to see my folks."

"Man my folks still think I'm dead bro."

"Well you got shitty parents then."

Perla's rosary beads, the ones that had been wrapped around her hands and wrist, had still been there as a reminder of not only faith, but family. The Marine that said that, her Corporal Kono, was a good man as far as Marines went. The only one out of them that donated blood to the hospital at Arnus Hill when he had the time, giving his good blood to those that needed it from the Empire, that and he had helped Perla out in translating some of her speech to those that came up to Kingdom Come while it was in defensive positions outside of Italica. Still, to think of such a good man being, not forgotten, but relegated to only being dead during the draft by his own parents was disheartening to think about.

They had filled up his room in the house to be simply storage space, his car sold, and the dog, his dear old dog, to be put up for adoption as if he would never come back.

That was how they coped in losing their son.

Only they didn't.

He was still around, but only just to spite them at this point.

Perla, she wasn't exactly in the same situation, but her parents had longed stopped trying for her to return after she signed another contract to be deployed abroad after returning home the first time.

 _"It would've looked better on my sheet, if I stayed in. You know, dedication and what not."_

Her reasoning was bare and her nerves were even thinner at that point.

Did she enjoy her time as a Marine, the first hundred days deployed? Did she enjoy sitting in the backseat of a truck, going over a mined highway underneath the unbearable sun as constant activity from the aerial assets blasted over head with gunfire always just that farther in front of them to keep them alert, just in case?

Did she enjoy raising her rifle up, up at the mountains of western Iran, and seeing an enemy, in their homeland, call them the invaders and respond to them accordingly?

Did she enjoy killing those who did not? Those who sought them as saviors, only to be caught in an avoidable crossfire?

Of course not. But if she was going to be astray as a person, she was going to be astray in a place where it meant something to someone: and that was as a Marine wandering battlefields where America had lost itself in.

She was wandering now, after all, in shotgun of a Humvee travelling on a plains so flat the horizon almost lined up with it.

Almost by instinct she looked down at the GPS computer on her wrist. It was Sunday, back on Earth. She never bothered to learn the days here.

"Father Samuel will blow a gasket seeing as I'm not there today." Perla had taken her faith to heart more than most Marines. In fact she was one of only five or so Marines of the Christian faith to actually go to his Sunday masses at Camp Arnus.

The sheer desecration of Arnus Hill by just, alone, having a religious ceremony from an external god take place there had been an undertone that had been increasingly prevalent as time had went on. If Overlord Actual's orders on keeping the religious and cultural interference on the local culture down had still been properly kept, those services, perhaps, wouldn't have been performed.

Marines always found their way however, much to Pierce's detriment.

The occasional porn magazine would be traded off into the Corridor, the tune of one pop song sang by one guard soon disseminating throughout the populace with little restraint… The engineering of modern culture to be memetic in nature had made it possible for American and Japanese culture to spread throughout those who had interacted with the Special Task Force without even trying.

The image emphasizing the bolted on breasts of one pornstar however was something that Pierce would tolerate. The spread of religion he would not. Especially when religion had been the most literal in this world than it ever had been back on Earth. If the conflict for Iraq and Afghanistan was that of religious principles and homeland, then for even a hint of that same fervor to arise here in response to them would be too much.

"Because I'm sure the good Lieutenant Samuel will miss having you around." Poindexter had nudged her. He knew how Perla herself had gotten into Christianity. Some Marines could go on for days about their hobbies and interests: dogs, trucks, firearms, home life and whatever kept them sane.

Lumaban, however… she could go on about Christ as if she had been one of the Apostles. She spoke about the Faith in a modern and practical sense too: something able to be debated and talked for the pragmatic human being who needed something to bring them out of darkness.

Lumaban had groaned back in return. Sometimes she would end up a part of Sunday services in a way that almost overshadowed the lieutenant chaplain.

"I'm praying extra time for all of your asses."

"Except for me, you know. Buddhist."

"You especially, Kono."

"Oh yeah? Then pray for Chuka too."

Lumaban had her own reservations about praying for the refugees, especially being in contact with an Apostle of another, tangible god. To think that, perhaps, she could offend and encroach was something that had been planted in her mind by Rory.

It's not like the refugees needed god, after all. They each had their own. Even the terrible ones hadn't been godless. The moral center that had been faith in the Special Region had been intact, if not understood by the refugees entirely now:

The Special Task Force, after all, seemed like the work of gods. They had come from Arnus Hill all the same and, once or twice, observed by Marines fresh out of missions to free slaves, many of those freedmen had bowed to them and talked to them as if apostles.

It was better to be worshipped, than reviled, though. Any veteran Marine would agree.

There were even concerns regarding North Korean refugees from the newly formed Republic of Unified Korea even coming into America, however the new RUK government had ensured that most of them would be contained to the Korean Peninsula.

It needed all the manpower they could to rebuild Korea, even those who had slaved away under the Kims.

It wasn't like North Korean terrorists had been widespread yet. Not with them all kept to one peninsula and constantly sandwiched between the RUK military and China.

Any of those who would be fanatic enough for the Kims had died anyway during the God Rod strikes and the subsequent counter-attack by both Korea, the US, Japan, and China from the North.

"You know the types of those that are left. We all do." Perla spoke with an elder voice nearly three times her age. It didn't sound right that such a knowledge was imbued in a woman her age at all, but she was accepted into the Corps all the same after surviving that long.

It meant something.

Especially where they had been deployed: Iran, the cleanup of Afghanistan, Korea with Pierce.

In all honesty she was expecting Mexico next, but at least they would've been on the same continent as home.

Not the entire new world that they had come to; the new land they drove across.

This land, an Afghanistan crossed with Italy, perhaps, one day. That was a prediction from a cynical Marine veteran that Perla had been among. Those that had remained in the country were those that had not been stuck there. Far from it. They had been the one who _**stayed**_ for the sake of dying on their own land. They survived that long anyway.

After the refugees all left. After the faulty governments left in shambles. After all the expatriates took their money and their riches and settled in Europe, what remained was simply a battleground for those that stood before the powers that had come to the Middle East and said, in a hundred thousand voices: _**"No."**_

No to every treaty, every truce, every preamble and promise of a peace and cessation of hostilities and stability cast aside for all time.

The only peace that would come was the Pax Americana that was given underneath the banner of the United Nations and mechanized militaries that detached humanity from all who was within its gears at one point or another by thrusting them into, what seemed like, an endless war.

Poindexter had chuckled. He himself had a certain way of dealing with refugees. Or, at least, a refugee. He wouldn't have wanted it anyway however. "Way I see it, long as any of these refugees ain't Imperials, they're all right."

She was alright, after all. She owned a flower shop.

"Says the man screwing one."

Poindexter had pressed his radio down. "This is Assassin 4-3, disregard victor movement for the next few moments, how copy?"

"Warlord 1-3 Actual. Copy Assassin."

The smaller victors had wisely widened off from the convoy as the Marine Humvee jerked from side to side rather violently, courtesy of Poindexter wanting to give his fellow Marines whiplash.

Ramirez had been up and above the usual military dispositions of warfighters. He had already been at the end of his rope and the only thing that he answered to was the regulations of his military. Behind his own face mask he had frowned at the Marines simply being Marines and all that meant as they were tossed around in their car after trash talking their driver.

As he looked over he had seen Loke give him a fist up in the air, her index finger then going up and down several times before she had made a V with her hand.

The veteran had clocked over to the appropriate channel on his radio. Loke wanted private talk. She got it as he chimed in. "2-2, go ahead 1-2."

Loke had made an annoyed sound into her throat mic for Ramirez to keeping toward radio discipline, but who was she to argue against a man nearly twice her age. "This Marine fireteam leader, George, ain't she the one-"

"Affirmative, 1-2." He knew what she was going ask. _Isn't she the God Rod operator that wiped a mother and her children off the face of the Earth? The one that you remember from Iran?_

Ramirez had thought Bannon and Masterson apparent reunion during the beginning of their deployment in Japan a one in a trillion chance. To think that young Marine that caused indiscriminate death by the hand of what was essentially a rod from God was still around and now in their unit was more than just a statistical improbability. It was downright impossible.

And yet here they were.

"I don't think she remembers you Ramirez." A few of the Rangers had remembered Ramirez's story, upon seeing Perla before them, dragged along with Kingdom Come as an escort. They knew that she had been the Marine he talked about and made no impression upon her because of it.

"Why would she? I gave her no reason. I was only passing through on the way to that city we were assaulting, you know, things Rangers are supposed to do Talia."

She flicked him off from the other side of the convoy. "Says one of the Rangers hunting dragons!"

"As if I had a choice! Not like I wasn't going to be the ONLY Ranger back at the Keep."

And thus he would be left to answer for Bannon going out to the Marines if that had been the case. Movement as a Ranger had its perks, and that being that he had never, during an actual deployment, never been in one area long enough for someone to complain about whatever it was he did wrong.

Special Forces like him he had long learned, never had to truly answer for what they had done. Sure, the debriefs from higher up, the social ramifications of tearing a location asunder in the name of targets and control, those had existed. Though answering for what they do, on a day to day basis, was an elusive kind of torment that kept Ramirez unceremonious about his position. Eventually someone would challenge his right to be a Ranger, and all that meant, and when that happened he would pay what he was due.

Same way, in his mind, he figured Lumaban would pay for what she had done ultimately. Beyond the traumatic stress, the nightmares: those were simply interest payments on the road to one final deposit until peace came.

"Are you ever going to talk to her about it?" Loke's voice dropped into her characteristically quiet gentleness. There was always care behind her voice, and even when it was bereft of it, she hated herself for not caring it around anymore.

"I don't think so. There are a lot of things that have to remain in Iran…" he trailed off, feeling the minute transition in the dirt from the plains to somewhere else. Somewhere where the dirt was a bit mushier. "She's a woman of the cross, anyways, I'm sure she carries her sins from Iran."

"…So no closure for you?"

 _For me?_ The old veteran almost chuckled.

"I don't need it, Corporal Loke. Unlike some people."

* * *

Yao had kept silent in her own thoughts aboard Kingdom Come's turret. The idea of riding the iron chariot that many had thought the tanks of the Special Task Force to be was a scary thought to some, but Yao had nothing to fear knowing what kind of men lived within. Tank desant hadn't been the usual mode of operation, but Wilbur could work with it. If Schwarz Forest was anything like the reports he had gotten on the area much earlier during the Operation, the Rangers would've shifted their SOP to something more relevant to them:

They were trained to escort heavy armor deep into enemy lines of course, and in practice this would've been the same at the end.

As for why Wilbur had known…

Lieutenant Colonel Noelle was the only pilot with top secret security clearance that had been attached to the 7th MEU as of current. Those Americans who had that same access had been the Rangers, as per their pre-requisite conditions to be under SOCOM, Pierce, Sevson, and their command staff, and, surprisingly, the Warlord tankers.

Earlier on in the operation Lieutenant Colonel Noelle flew out from the freshly dusted provisional runway at Arnus Hill on special recon flights that had been explained to Hazama as being CAP.

It was by Hazama's insistence that the Rangers had gone with the RCTs at the beginning of the Operation to appease the Marines sentiments regarding the fact that it had been a Joint effort. The 7th MEU had been appeased on the face for this, but it was only because they had already gotten the method for information gathering out that they needed.

Noelle had launched various drones and other resource detection utilities along the operation airspace, and one of those implements had landed near the Schwarz forest.

It was still there, buried, according to the readings, the seismic "sonar" that it used constantly bouncing back rather interesting data regarding Schwarz and the Roldom Valley.

If Yao never came about, they would've been there anyway.

"Shame about Bannon." The tankers silence had been there only because they were stuck in the middle: between Rangers, Refugees, and Marines.

"What's there to be shamed about, Dix?" His TC asked earnestly.

Dixie had licked his teeth as he answered over the internal net. "She's a good woman, English. As good as any you'll get in the service I think."

"The hell do you mean you hound dog?"

"Oh shut the fuck up you horny coon."

Wilbur had thought it proper that he had been teaching the refugees and the citizens of the Corridor his particular brand of English. Not the one of Marines; one that had already resulted in kike and nigga being injected into the local vocabulary by the far more crass and unknowing new English speakers.

The TC had toyed with the MFD for a second, checking exactly how far the map they were. The Special Task Force wouldn't exactly have the most detailed. "Bannon, she's of a different stripe I think. Don't think it really matters, but I heard something said about her by one of the spooks that was hanging about."

"Shit there are spooks around? Ain't seen any of those since Tehran." Schmack had knowledge. His time in Iran in a forward element had him providing cover fire for the spooks of both Israel, the EU, Russia, and, of course, the US. The amount of special forces that had been inserted into Iran by the many countries of the UN and Russia's defense coalition had been perhaps overkill.

The idea of special forces however had brought Wilbur to think of his country's 22nd SAS, and a branch of that organization that had been ceremoniously allowed to operate under one of Britain's former colonies.

It was a country renowned for its fighters and soldiers, spread out around the world once it fell apart.

" _She's a Rhodie_." Wilbur spoke lowly.

Chains kept on. "A roadie? Like bands and shit?"

Wilbur had kicked the man below him in shame. "Nah. Rhodesian."

"Fuck is that?"

"The predecessor state to Zimbabwe. White-majority rule. Took the money and left the place near destitute when it was returned to the people." Mugabe and his order in Zimbabwe had been recently been subject to a revolution (and a mob lynching), Wilbur knew. It was why he had found Bannon's ethnic roots so interesting, even if it was just a bit of trivia. In a sense, they were both products of England.

"Ouch… You got a problem with that?"

Wilbur hadn't cared, shaking his head, adjusting the little wooden trinket that Yao had made for him. "Nah, just something to talk about tonight around the fire I guess."

"In all my days, I never thought it'd take me this long to actually be around a camp fire." Chains had laughed at himself. If Emerson had been urban, then Chains had been the concrete. "Ain't never fucked around with fire in Iran."

"Afraid of the burn, Derek?" Schmack toyed with the younger man.

"Afraid of Iranian shooters, _that's what_."

All of them minus Wilbur, they were veterans. Even then however, there was a hardiness to Wilbur that the other tankers could respect.

"In all my days, I don't think I ever imagined myself in a god damned Abrams again." Schmack had spat out, spitting on the floor, fist against the walls of the beast. "I've got a life to get onto."

There was once a time where Schmack had thought of tanking to be his life: the creed of the Marine, always being a Marine. He thought himself as an anomaly for not wanting that at all. Not after it all. Not after he tasted the land of sanity again and sought himself to become as sane as any person could ever be.

To be a Marine now, to him, logically, was insane. And yet his country called, forced, and he was once again sitting in the cramped interior of America's greatest war machine.

"How many days do you think we all have left eh? I don't like thinking about it too much." Wilbur had looked up the hatch to Yao. Hopefully the future was a good one for an elf who suffered so much. Maybe a future he deserved after so many lands surveyed and turned over.

He could still smell the putrid air of the plains he tore up in the Serengeti.

"I don't like thinking about the days I've lived and the days that I have left. All that matters to me is today." Schmack answered.

Yao had interjected over the internal net. She had a tanker's headset after all. The man had almost wanted to smack the bitch for interjecting in at all. "It might be hard for humans to understand but… there will be a point in your life where you have lived more, then you will live on." Yao had looked upon the blue horizon, towards her home. "The past is important for us Elves. Among the High Elves, the Darks, the Forest and the Lessers, one of the few things that we all share is that we have been gifted with long lives, and to remember and appreciate the past as we make it is ingrained in all of us."

That's what the Dark Elf told the tankers who all were running away from their past: trying to bury or forget it underneath the treads of Kingdom Come. That was a good thing about the tank, to most of them.

While inside the tan painted shell of a tank that had been there for almost three decades and survived, nothing else existed outside of it. Nothing that could harm them at least.

There was safety in that thought.

Schmack didn't share that thought of course.

Not after his time in Iran, loading rounds into his M1A5 as the Iranians answered with their locally produced T-72s and ATGMs; answering in a form that they had practiced for for a long time. The way that the combined NATO and UN forces that had come to thunder through Turkey and Iran was tank warfare as intended in the Cold War, and that had meant, no matter how far technologically the machines of war had gotten, it had become a meat grinder, both ways.

Put simply Iran threw enough shit back at the invaders that some stuck.

The turd that stuck to Schmack was being locked inside his tank for a few hours too many after being knocked with an anti-tank missile and left for dead as the front moved forward. Being inside of a burning hot, dark, metal shell as gunfire resounded about had not been good for him, but he would never complain about it to his fellow tankers.

He didn't get hurt after all. No scars to show. No exciting story to come out of it.

Darkness had become an old friend to him however, and that was something that followed him in Iran, and thus, haunted his dreams.

Perhaps he could sympathize with Chuka once he remembered the part in his memory in which he banged and screamed wildly against the cramped insides of the crew space, trying desperately to pry open the cover.

 _"If we open this fucking thing they'll know we're not dead Schmack!"_

 _"Get me out of here! Please! Get me the fuck out of this place!"_

The loader's hand had instinctively reached up to the sky, making sure the hatch hadn't been closed.

The twitch of the action was followed by the tense of his entire form, his other hand finding the lever that armed the gun itself and holding it. Wilbur had noticed, looking across to his loader.

"You alright there Schmack?"

"Buh- ah. Yeah. Was just nodding off there for a second."

 _Never sleep in the tank. Never sleep in the tank. Never sleep in the tank._

The loader reached down at a little metal inlet at his feet, a bottle of water down there. Clear, not yellow, thankfully. All the yellow ones had been tossed out at the beginning of the journey. It wasn't like they were in the situation to be shitting over the turret and pissing into bottles just yet anyway.

No need to.

They were men on a mission, not fucking savages like those refugees up front, not like-

Schmack had wiped those thoughts clean as he guzzled the bottle. He was being unfair to the refugees who put him in their position right now.

Wilbur had been okay with going out, even if it was his idea. Dixie was at peace now, and Chains couldn't give a damn. Schmack though? He had his reservations. Always. Over needless decisions and needless risks that went up against everything he knew.

"What do you think of the past John?" Wilbur had went on, seating himself back into his proper seat.

The water bottle had dropped from his hand without care, tumbling to the floor and meeting the dirt that his boots had been shaking off. He shrugged. "I don't think often on it. Not much to offer me, English."

"Yeah? Well, what do you think less of? Iran or the oil?"

"Iran." Not that oil was a truthful answer anyway. "You ever been?"

"As a Marine? Nah. I was still barely getting settled in America when you Yanks went to war. Only became a Marine after Kim died."

"I'd love to see your passport, English." Wilbur had chuckled as Chains, between his knees, had snickered himself. "And here my uncultured ass ain't been out of country for myself."

"You had your fun in Iran Chains, you shut your mouth." Dixie rattled over the radio. Apparently the worshipping of Marines had been, although smaller, prevalent during the last intervention of Afghan to, as said Chains during his tellings of his time there.

Schmack had grown to be observant, especially during his university days after Iran, combing over Wilbur's words. "What do you mean as a Marine? How about with BP?"

Wilbur had rubbed his shoulder once as he looked to the side of the CITV where had taped a picture of both the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes. He enjoyed being English-born and American-adopted on some measure. It made him a special snowflake, even if he had to remember he worked for British Petroleum.

"I spent some time in the Persian Gulf… uhm, interning with a few other surveyors."

"Really? How'd that go?"

"I'm handier at land-based discovery then I am with the ocean floor."

"Either way you're still scum sucking." Dixie reminded his TC.

"Hey, I'm sure I've made some African despots lives much easier by discovering shite in Africa." That was self-loathing in his voice, unmistakably, his gloved hands coming to the cape that had bestowed upon him by Madam Myui. "Same way I'll make the Italica and Lelei happy I bet."

As was the reason they were all here. They, the tankers, specifically. They didn't wonder too much why the Pentagon had assembled them all into one unit, but the cut and dry answer they had been told at the classified briefing made logical sense:

Claim the resource wells first by finding them, making sure that Japan could not hide them from America or the international community.

Wilbur knew he felt dirty at the very thought of digging up a native land again, a beautiful land at that, but he liked to think that President Dirrel wasn't serious, and his presence there along with the rest of the Warlords was a worst case scenario condition.

He had a particular sense of skills, whether he liked or not however. They all did. From being able to use a rifle, to digging into the Earth's flesh and sucking her dry.

It was a necessary aspect of global politics however. A world needed its resources, and here Falmart had been presented.

They didn't need oil anyway. Not now.

"At least that's why we're supposed to be here at least. Not going out hunting Red." Schmack himself knew that he wasn't happy, and misery always needed company, saying his gripes aloud, judging them all and himself.

Because, as it seemed in this region, if they didn't, no one would.

"You know," Dixie wanted to chime in. "I remember when I was posted off Alaska, on the rig, many of the guys had the same sort of thought you had about it Schmack."

"Oh yeah Dix?"

"Bet your ass. The cold, the constant spray, the isolation; does some funny stuff to the mind. Now I was used to it as a veteran at that point, but uh, sometimes the suck gets so much that people just isolate themselves into a frame of mind that's day to day." Dixie's time as a human resources officer in the oil business hadn't been undeserved. "I told them all to get their head out of the gutter. That that sorta internal time scale is only a reaction as opposed to a coherent decision by the human mind."

"English, Dixie, English." Schmack bent over down toward the lower, inner grate of the turret, looking at the back of Dixie's head in his section of Kingdom Come.

Yao had chuckled, even she had thought the combination of words funny.

"What I mean to say is you just gotta find something to look forward to." Dixie looked back, believing himself. It's what got him through that time on the rig.

"Reason why I'm so happy bro." Chains looked over to Schmack. "If our homeboy English here can get some of the local ass, I'm just waiting for my time, 'specially after we slay Red and shit."

Yao poked her head through Schmack's hatch. "I heard that, Chains."

"I know you did honey. I bet you love our vibrations too, don't ya?" English kicked Chains again, only for the man to return it in an elbow to the shins. Schmack wanted no part as an odd game of bruising footsie went on, shooing Yao back onto her spot on top of the turret.

If looking forward to something was what was going to keep him sane, then he would be looking forward to his next cigarette whenever they stopped.

* * *

"Do you think Yao has ever thought of just running away?" Bannon had leaned her head up from her music, riding in her new Humvee. If there was anything she shared with Itami, it was that idea of retreat: to leave the problem and move. It was what she was doing for the better half of her adult life after all. Even now if joining the military was simply another extension of that. "It's often the easier choice, in my experience."

For five people, the Humvee had been okay for space, considering three of them had been about child sized. The fact that Itami's own Humvee had lacked any armament had lent them some space, regardless of the amount of ammunition and launchers in the back.

As long as Bannon pretended it was simply just the cargo plane ride over to Japan again, she would've been fine playing surrogate mother for the time being. That's what got her out of her bad mood after the first hour or so of riding, even Chuka didn't want to bother her: as was the aura that Bannon gave off.

Chuka curled a finger to her chin in consideration as an elf. "I don't think so."

"Why is that?"

"Elves cannot abandon their homes, they'd rather die than-"

Her breath hitched like a hiccup, Bannon pulling the earpod out of her ears as she braced to play her role.

 _"What are those, Mother?"_ Chuka had asked her earlier, referring to the black ear buds that had been attached to her Blackberry.

 _"It was a gift from Uncle Masterson, dear."_ Was her answer. The phone hadn't been, but the buds were. She enjoyed her music, that much Hitman had known of Bannon, always plugged in whatever rare time she was allowed. She had her fair share of country music in her library, between Cash and The Allman Brothers, however in Japan she had picked up her share of the local music culture.

It was how she learned Japanese, after all. She gave that same excuse to Chuka now.

 _"Cheating with Father, are you now?"_

 _"Don't even think of it."_

Lelei had once described to Bannon that, at any use of magic, a particular aura would come to be associated with any real space affected by that magic typically. It was how reality reacted to the usage of magic and the tell-tale sign of something being afoot in terms of the arcane.

Though the young mage had known more about magic than anyone else in that car, runner up would've been Chuka with her own natural tendencies as an elf.

They were rudimentary typically with the elves, Lelei explained. She had, and would have, a better grasp on the arcane arts. Though elves were naturally born with the ability to use magic, much of that prowess, she theorized, was kept under biological wraps, attributed to their long life spans.

It didn't mean that magic couldn't do its damage. Not when she was, on occasion, use it to reach out to life and influence; to reach out with the physical world and affect it. It wasn't quite the Force, per Star Wars, but it was similar.

For such power to be triggered by the truth, it had made Doc's precautions about her readily apparent. A deepness in Chuka's eyes had dug itself out as she stopped mid-sentence. Her internal logic were two halves: sane and insane. This was a crossing point in using that logic. So they fought. Fought about why Chuka had known that fact about Elves and their homes so intimately.

She had accepted that her home, her forest, had burned down due to tragedy, but she could live with that. Natural disasters happen all the time, and the Flame Dragon, though a living being, could've been classified as natural. To lose her parents however? She couldn't imagine how she would live with that.

At least, she thought, her parents were alive and well and safe and with her and most importantly the one constant in her life in this changing world.

Similar enough for a bottle to rise up from the dashboard of the car, for all but Chuka herself to see, veiled in blue, and, in one go, crush in its crunchy, plastic way. The contents of it had splashed itself down on the counter as Chuka came back to the land of the conscious.

"What was that?"

Itami locked the wheel as he had quickly thrown the bottle beneath the seat. "Just spilt some water dear." he said hurriedly. "I'm just getting used to driving, is all."

That was the excuse given to Chuka about why "Hodor" was driving. He was learning. Itami had ceased to exist in entirety it seemed, and they weren't going to test if he had survived in Chuka's mind. Especially since she had seemed to disintegrate and rip a physical objects upon being tested.

"Well, to be fair Father, I don't think we've ever been this far from Italica… but you have, right Mother?"

Bannon froze for a second as she simply nodded. "Yeah… never this fast though, of course."

"But didn't you ride a horse with Uncle Daru out here? That was fast enough."

"Uh, I don't know, hun', this just seems more… efficient?" She looked down to Lelei as if looking for confirmation. "Yeah, efficient."

Chuka had nodded in agreement. It pained Bannon to be treating her as if a child, but she had to for all of their sake, looking at the remnants of water on the dashboard of the Humvee and all the dust that it washed away.

"Do you think the Americans have ever traveled this far in their lives? It must be interesting to them."

Lelei had looked out the window before settling her hand on her chin, stroking it once as she recalled her studies on a people. "Americans are different with movement in my investigations."

"Been studying Americans again Lelei?" Itami asked, head tilted over to the back, a little concerned.

She nodded to Itami's curiosity. "Movement is an important aspect of the American people."

"How do you mean? Like, travelling?" He pushed on.

Lelei had brushed her blue bangs back, looking within herself, remembering what culturally she had learned. Pierce might've not wanted them to be infected by Americana, but because of that Lelei did study it. "As a nomad, I understand that movement is an aspect of my life which exists above all. I will always be moving, for that is how I was born and my people have survived. It is not an aspect of culture, but rather culture itself for us Rurudo. To be unable to move is to not be a Rurudo, and we must be moving."

Bannon had flashed a sympathetic smile to her. They had this existential discussion once, on her feelings of settling down in Italica outright to help Myui lead that rising regional power. Though things always changed in that world, and so would she.

"Then how is it with Americans?"

"For Americans it is the freedom of movement that is important to them. Not to necessarily move, but to have the ability to do so and exert themselves as free because of it."

"Ah, freedom as usual… Japan's free too, as I hear."

"Not in the same way, Hodor." She shook her head. "For many Imperials, when moving, where they begin and where they end are the most important parts of a journey. It is the same with Japan and many other nations in their world culturally. However for Americans, it is how they chose to get to their final destination which is important to them."

"The journey, not the destination?" Rory had remembered one of Masterson's sayings.

"Yes. And not only that, movement is more than just going from one physical location to another."

"To be able to think what you want to think, to know what you come to know… thought and development can be seen as movement as well."

"Thinking is movement?"

"You've never been lost in your dreams, Chuka?" Itami humored her.

Rory had a way to explain however. "In the Empire, ever since Emperor Molt came to power, it is the same to think of his as God Emperor in the same way it is to think of the sky as blue. I think what Lelei thinks of Americans is that their freedom of movement can also include being able to have their thoughts be astray to, if they were in the Empire, to think of Emperor Molt as simply a man, or as a bad emperor."

Lelei had looked down at her hands. Those hands had been worn, courtesy of the distance she had come from. "The freedom to move as you will, whatever you will, and how you will. That is movement to Americans."

"I don't think I could live like that," Chuka said uneasily, lightly. "Just waking up everyday and telling myself: "I could move today to another forest! But I won't! Because I can! But it could happen!"" She tried mocking an American accent in her knowledge of English, but that had come out to be was some sort of ugly amalgamation between Masterson's twang and Wilbur's English.

Bannon had been amused in a chuckle. She couldn't risk talking much as per her real voice, but she shook her head. "I don't think it's exactly like that, hun'." Her Lee-Enfield had been on the floor next to Rory's halberd, she picking it up and putting it in her lap.

It was her only ranged weapon now.

"It also means that the reasons you have to move, if you do, are your own… Maybe that's why the Rangers aren't so thrilled" The sergeant said wearily, perhaps out of all the Rangers bar Ramirez, the one that had moved the most in their lives. Even then it was for a reason so unlike the military one the old Ranger had acted under.

Itami almost wanted to say her name in question, but he didn't. "How do you mean?"

Bannon looked out the window at the range beyond them, Ortiz and his ATV bussing along with them. "They agreed to come out here to finish what they started. To be told they're doing something because of one reason instead of the one they got themselves psyched up on…"

Bannon's words trailed off, leaving the group in a pause that they did not know wasp purposeful or not.

"Nara?" Lelei asked out, trying to draw Bannon out. Rory had looked back and almost did a double take.

Bannon and Masterson had obviously shared some traits with each other. It was why they had the affection they had for each other; one especially that Rory could detect. It was natural that, with whatever words they spoke, they spoke it with such tone and American pragmatism that Emerson had lacked. They agreed on the same actions, made the same decisions, fought with the same fervor born from internal strife…

And yet, right then and now, as Bannon dazed out, there was a squint in her eye and a curl on the edge of her lips. Her hand had held her rifle's worn wood tighter.

Rory had thought whatever had infected Emerson had been there for a second.

"-'s not good." She finally finished.

"What're you talking about mother?" Chuka had asked. Bannon's cryptic talking was for her sake.

"Such freedom sounds very fluid, I think." As said the apostle, staring out at those plains she had traveled before, taking hold of the conversation. At her age she had been everywhere, and walked the same roads again and again. She knew movement better than anyone just by pure mileage alone. "Perhaps in the academic scholars, or the higher mages in Rondel, do I hear of such similar ways to look at such an aspect of life… but an entire people? It'd be very hard to control them."

"What do you mean?" Lelei had considered herself capable of being a high mage in Rondel, but even then Rory's words had eluded her.

The larger picture as explained by the youngest form, it seemed. "I've acted as a conduit for many souls in my life, dear Lelei. Those who believe themselves free of the jurisdiction of a higher power: to be themselves at the very end instead of attributing it to anyone else, those are the souls which make me stop and process them in my heart." Her small hands had rested over her chest, clutching at it, gradually opening up as if letting sand through the sieve.

"You've got a few years left, Rory." Bannon reached out and patted her shoulder, almost immediately regretting. Even touching the apostle had felt wrong and electrifying all at once: as if touching a skeleton. "Live a few of those years in America. Might do you good."

She shook her head, as she patted Bannon's hand in return. "Oh, I wouldn't. I might get carried away, and, if I die over there, Emroy wouldn't be able to find my soul."

Lelei blinked a few times, thinking of what she just said. "Does it work like that, priestess?"

In the moments of quiet after all Rory could offer was a shrug.

* * *

 ** _Falmart – Warlord 1-3's Unit - The Natural Border between Italica's land holdings and the Elbe Fiefdom_**

* * *

"Avenger to all victors, Roma River directly to our front. Follow me in." Itami's English had broken through, the TC and loader all raising themselves up out of Kingdom Come and out to see the slip of blue they were rapidly approaching.

A few hours of travel later and here they were, hopefully having put the events of that morning behind them.

The only problem what had been in front of them as they, for the first time in hours, stopped and disembarked.

It was a waterway. Just like the Thames of England or the Euphrates that cradled civilization, it was in use, it was alive, and it was blue.

Wilbur had popped out of his hatch as he saw it all. Saw the land beyond it, not too far at all, but far enough that made their burden of a machine a hindrance. "Should've been a sailor, mates."

"Nigga, you know I can swim." Chains had been quick to pout as he tried to removed himself from the tank.

"Well Kingdom Come can't." Schmack had sat on his loader's hatch, nothing but blue in front of him. There was a story, he read once, in university. It was a story about a man gone down a river in Africa, for the sake of some objective which would escape all but those who set him out on it. It was a story he liked to think of now as he saw the sun beginning its path down and threatening to immerse them in the dark world.

He only thought of the locales of course, not the content of that story. Otherwise he might've just put a bullet within himself at that moment.

Bannon and Itami had gotten out of their Humvee as the rest of the Rangers formed around them, the Marines testing the waters, literally, as they went right on the sandy edge of the river and dipped their hands in.

"What now, Rangers?" They asked out, almost accusatory.

They could literally see across that river. No bigger than the distance between Manhattan and New Jersey via the Hudson. Not only that, they could see people across it too, emerging out of tents and carts to see who had appeared on the other side.

It only took a cursory glance for Rory to deduce who they were as she joined Itami by his side, stretching: "Nomads."

"Rurudo?" Bannon asked, turning to Lelei.

The mage had shook her head. "My people are further north, this time of year, past the capital. Also many of them have…" She gestured to her hair and its obvious peculiarities. Turns out it was natural.

"I don't suppose you see them often then?" Itami asked back.

"Once or so a year. They come to visit me and Master Cato as to seek medical and magical assistance from us as needed."

"Must be nice to have extended family, don't you think Mother? Father?"

"Of course, hun'."

Wilbur had waved to those across the river, and they returned the wave and went back to their business. They wouldn't have been concerned about a group of armored vehicles out of the fact they didn't know what they were.

Nutt had taken a rock that had by the Ranger Humvee, only to skip it out over the water. There was an obvious problem here. "Hey! Wilbur!"

"Aye?!"

"How deep can an Abrams tread?"

Wilbur flashed a thumb back to the grills on the Abrams back. "Can't go no deeper than my exhausts and intake allow!"

Dixie had popped out of his own driver's hatch beneath the barrel. "Ain't no way to Hell I'm gonna be submerged in this damn thing anyway."

Even a beautiful, bountiful land had its caveats.

"Hey, Harris, get a few of the cans out, we gotta refuel!" Ramirez yelled out from the bikes, Dixie talking into the internal tanker net in response.

There was no use in inaction.

"We should do the same. Whether we go around or head back, we gotta fill 'er up."

"Make it so." He agreed, getting up and out fully as they started that process of feeding the beast.

A few of the Rangers had joked about swimming across, Nutt doing math in his head about how heavy the Abrams was and what that could possibly mean for them.

Schmack's square face had come to some sort of bored peacefulness as he looked around and saw Chuka ponder with her mother about going for a quick dip, Rory laughing at the consideration. On the other hand the Marines had looked on grimly.

Marines knew how to swim, but not with the amount of gear that they had brought along.

He forgot when the action of reaching into his pocket and pulling out his zippo had become less than a movement and more of a natural emotion. As much a part of his psychology as smiling and frowning had been. So he lit a cigarette as he looked out upon the waters, thinking about what bullshit solution they would come up to get them over that river. "Seems like we've lost the first of ebb."

* * *

 _ **Later that day**_

 _ **Falmart – The Labyrinth – The Inner Sanctum**_

* * *

Some of the gear that Hitman had bought wasn't standard issue. The guns from Hakone withstanding, there was still some noted personalization and additions to Hitman's loadout which they themselves had loaded on.

The cameras were one thing, still going on, despite the fact they were, on occasion, forgotten that they had been witnessing all that Hitman did. Asides from them, gloves, preferred boots, shoulder and elbow padding, and protective eyewear had been some of the choice objects that had come down to user preference.

The more drastic additions had been items that the Hitmen had bought or fabricated out of their own means:

What that meant currently, as Private Omar had gone clean through the head of one of the walking dead, covering the six o'clock of Emerson's Hitman detachment with a few others, it was his personal, hardware store-bought crowbar that did the deed.

It was less effective than the breaching hammer that Tony had used, but albeit a bit cleaner.

A bit.

The skull wouldn't be absolutely pulverized.

 _ **"Carl Gustav out!"**_

 _ **"Clear!"**_

It would've been a bit of exaggeration that it rained blood, but if one would've looked at the once woodland and desert camouflaged-dressed, wolf head-hooded Rangers at this very moment, they might've assumed that it had rained red recently.

The HE round from the Carl Gustav had erupted from Masterson's shoulder, his cloak, tattered and ridden with blood and claw marks, had fluttered behind him for just a second as those that had remaining ammo in their rifles opened up one last time into the bloody mulch of the chest cavity Masterson had made inside that giant beast.

A Minotaur no less. As big as a house, feeding off the same infected blood that painted Emerson and his Hitman detachment.

Wilkes had lugged his free fire mortar at his hip: a white phosphorus round loaded and fired in one bloop as he was almost kicked off his two feet by the launch. As Hitman had spread out that line of fire, those that hadn't the ammo had simply stood there with swords from adventurers come and gone from this Labyrinth and cut the rest down.

Khan had been instructed to never swallow what he had bitten down on, but even then his mouth had been a bit… redder than anyone had liked, given the amount of rabid animals they had encountered here having dined on infected flesh.

They didn't want to put their own dog down. At least not like the Minotaur as the mortar shell from Wilkes darted that several dozen meter distance, hitting that same bleeding chest crater that Masterson had made: its bleeding heart for all to see in its anatomical fantastical glory, flesh burnt and pulsing, and landing right in it.

To be fair Hitman had liked what they saw happen to the Minotaur. They had fought to deserve it, even if they had only seen the Minotaur for a second or two, munching on the body of one of the zombies. The zombie horde slaughter they all participated in had led them inward into the maze as they unconsciously did what nature wouldn't to the female walking dead. That little side-quest had led them to a few traps, a few falling downs into the basement of the affair, sewage romps and further decimation of anything unholy they came across, but they didn't think of it as anything wrong as much as they saw it as the logical course of events that led them to where they were now.

It would've been too easy to just keep blasting their way through the stone walls just to get to the supposed growing place of Rokude pears that the town of Crety needed.

Masterson had been in the middle of chambering another round into his launcher as Hauvsbaum nudged him in the shoulder with her sniper rifle, the taped on foliage long ruined by engagements way too close for her type of training.

Emerson had held his M45 at ease as he saw the burn through his gas mask.

It was a great burn: like seeing a flare thrown into a barrel of gasoline, the blinding white of the willie pete going off and engulfing a being from the inside out.

They responded to the Minotaur as if it had been enemy armor, and Masterson had spared no time whipping out the launcher to deal with it.

Wasn't the worst thing they had seen all day. Not as they had seen the veins of the beast bubble, burn, and burst in short order all along its sickly looking beige skin, its fur from the chest down going alight as it opened its mouth and drooled some combination of boil and blood.

The enormity of the beast gave it some disassociation the Rangers could use as, just a few feet behind them, those assigned to rear section had been cleaning up whatever dregs of womanly undead still followed them.

The Minotaur's corpse had bellowed in some cow like screech up into the tree above, a flame from its chest erupting like a geyser in sparks and the distinctive twinkle of the white phosphorus munitions.

It was a fountain with enough height to touch upon that base of the great, gargantuan tree that had it itself erupted from the center of that Labyrinth they had been killing and exploding their way through. It was hot enough to leap out, touch upon that old dried bark, and to go alight.

Emerson's eyes had squinted behind the gasmask, his M45's barrel smoking still as he saw the smoke rise from the dead and the dead bark of the tree before them. It was the size of one of downtown Tokyo's buildings at least; as big as the apartment block he lived in as a child.

Masterson had dropped to one knee in his panting as the body of the giant Minotaur had twitched. "Oh come on, I expected more." The launcher had fallen out of his hand as he had grabbed the double barrel shotgun that he had dropped only seconds before to raise the Launcher. " _I expected more."_

 _Was that…?_

"Jesus Christ, you sound disappointed Cam." Emerson had coughed out, looking back as he saw those that were dealing with the pitiful remains of whatever else had followed them. There wasn't much to talk about. Not when they were dealt with cold steel swung or sliced at them with the strength that the Rangers could garner, that deep in it.

It wasn't hard work, past looking past the faces of the infected women. Just tiring and never ending and, in an unsayable fact to Hitman, _**easy**_.

They would have the Imperials to thank for that. Actions become dissociated from reason, and reason goes out the window when the battle goes on.

This all made sense.

"I thought this job would be harder." Masterson throated in sarcasm and snide.

"Because no one's fucking shooting at us yet. That's why." One of the Rangers said in a cruel response.

The Minotaur wasn't dead, it just was on the way, judging by how the burning white light that had come from within it had pulsed all the same as its gurgling breaths. They basically had created a funeral pyre and eliminated the beast all at once, among other things, as the tree had caught fire from the bottom up and the body of the beast sank through that hollow floor below.

Hitman wouldn't have known they had also dealt with the source of the infection, or anything of the like as the tree and its great roots, perhaps there for centuries, caught fire. It was a tree, strung together like licorice, surrounded by ethereal light from the sparse roofing above and surrounded by the crypts.

They had forgotten when they had left the maze and instead wandered into the Arunn Kingdom's scientific and medical facilities: both as old as time seemingly from the dust and neglect. Nature found a way however to live past the Arunn Kingdom: living longer than those whose remains were left in the cages and succumbing to rust and rot.

Not that Hitman had paid much heed to them as they cut through flesh at an alarming rate.

Once or twice, in the middle of it, in between a mag reload or a lull in the oncoming action of zombies and whatever miracle of hell that the labyrinth could throw at them, Masterson had said something about how the military would ever lose to zombies in fictional media.

They couldn't lose because, in their reality, the only reality, they and people like them existed now.

And what they brought, they could observe plainly: behind them, a trail of bodies belonging to women that should've been dead. And before them: the great flame of an ancient tree that rose, and rose, and rose.

This was a maze not meant for them. It still threw what it had against them however, and the overreaction they offered in return had been all the same. From here, to the Capital, wherever Hitman had went, they would-

" _ **Burn baby, burn**_!"

Peters had racked his shotgun once, a shell long having been empty coming out and down onto the stone floor below, bouncing off Khan as he growled into the air like a machine. "Weren't we here just to get some fuckin' pears, or something?"

Emerson had lamented as he went for his e-cigar, his feet standing still, his gas mask still on and cursing the fact that it had called for him in this moment of reflection.

A leg from one of the following zombies had twitched, and all at once Omar had screamed. He was tired, but not enough, his mind told him. He should've been dead tired; beyond anything he should've felt because of what he was doing in that place, picking people apart.

He was only tired enough to drag his crowbar across the ground and whatever fleshy additions that had been rubbed into it, and raise it up, screaming, down onto the head of the body that legged belonged to. Her skull broke, not like glass, an eye destroyed on the way down and splattered along the rest of her long rotted grey matter, but rather like that of a stone. Bone broke like that, he had learned.

He proved it again by bringing that crowbar down, with each swing, on a body part that was still twitching; on a body part that was not yet broken by Hitman.

His screaming was only joined by the cackle of flame as Emerson, in one word, answered Peters as one by one Hitman had saw the job they had done for such a simple task:

"Yep."

Masterson had held his head down and shook as he completed the reloaded. He never did like the smell of smoke. Reminded him too much of West Texas and the wildfires. All that smoke ever meant was destruction had brewed, and it came across in that sickly, choking smell.

"Look on the bright side, Sergeant Masterson," Tony had taken a knee as well, desperately trying to use his gas mask to scratch his forehead where his fingers could not touch. "If we can take on a Minotaur and a giant cock, Sergeant Bannon probably ain't having too hard of a time taking out wounded Red."

Was this the sound of peace? The slow burn of flesh and leaves. It was the first thing that could qualify as peaceful as Masterson looked down at the ground and at the tip of his boots. "Why'd you have to remind me man?"

No rest for the weary. No moment of inaction if they could help it.

Emerson had already slung both his empty rifles, the Winchester and his AR, behind his back, only his M45 remaining. Ever since Italica however he had made sure to keep enough spare .45 magazines in reserve for days like this. "How're we looking with ammo Hitman?!" He outed from his mouth, dropping the pistol mag into his pocket before slamming in another, his dump pouch full already.

 _Last mag. I've got three more. My pistol's fully loaded. Handful of buck and that's it. Another box for the SAW and that's it._

That's how they responded, more or less.

They were combat capable Emerson had deducted. It wasn't a wrong assumption at all. Otherwise they could just smacking around stuff like half of them had been already.

"Cam, take four guys, backtrack through the chambers we passed through and find these pears." Emerson tried to make shapes with his hands. "Really fucking round, skin like a pear, green, if you're not sure just radio in."

"Affirmative! Wilkes, Hauvsbaum, Tony, Omar with me."

"Copy!" The five Rangers, totally uninterested in the burning sight before them. The tactical fervor in which they split off from the main group certainly meant that, if they missed any hostiles on the way in, they were still ready.

The rest remained with Emerson, and they had gotten ready too, bracing their breaths and straightening their psyche for orders. They didn't just want to hear them. They wanted to inhale them, through their nose, through their pores, to take them within them fully and ingrain them. That was how they were able to operate on the edge: grinding their teeth as they processed every thought like a machine.

"Rest of you, we're going through the surrounding chambers from this sanctum. We're looking for the pears and any actionable intel this side of paradise. Group up, move out. Peters, you and Khan are with me."

"Roger!" the rest had called out, Peters and Khan taking a knee besides their captain.

Even the dog knew how to stack up. "He gonna be alright?" Peters asked with urgency.

The flashlight on Emerson's pistol went up and on as he regarded their beloved shepherd. "Based on the fact he's a he. I think he'll be alright. Just going to have to give him some laxatives to force some of the more fleshy shit out of his system when we RTB."

The fire had reached the bottom vines of the tree as Hitman entirely started to split off toward arched doors to find the secrets that lay past them, ready for whatever would dare fight them at this point. They were ready to beat the shit out of an apostle at this point.

"So what exactly did the Arunn Kingdom do in this place anyway other than "medical research"?" The air quotes were apparent.

"Longevity as I heard." Emerson said with some sort of wist.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, take point." Upon beckoning Peters rose up from his crouch, patting Emerson's shoulder as he fell in behind him, running past the embers toward the side of the sanctum as the rest of Hitman did their clearing.

" _ **How you know that?"**_

Peters, perceptive as always.

"When I was studying Dark Elves before I was imbedded with Pina, this place came up as a place of ire for the Dark Elves. Gotta know what type of stuff happened to us-" he paused for a second. "Them."

"You know, between my black ass and yours sir, and especially me being the immigrant, why in the blazes are you the one always changing?"

Emerson pointed at one stone arched door for it to be breached, and Peters had followed. He at least still had a rifle. And a dog.

Unfortunately there wasn't much to breach.

The gladiators at the arenas throughout the Empire were held in cages alongside the main pit. It kept the fresh meat as close to the meat grinder as possible for the viewing pleasure of the audience. Emerson preferred, during his tenure as Bronxon, to be in there as well with his fellow gladiators whenever he was called to the pit.

It spoke to his idea of being an underdog somewhat, but he believed that he would have his fair treatment, whether he liked it or not.

The principle was the same here in the Labyrinth, now that they were at the epicenter of all the labs.

He remembered his childhood as well, thinking back to the malls in lower Manhattan that sold purebred pets, stacked on top of each other in glass cabinets. The form factor was the same, but the design much darker.

Glass had been replaced by steel bars, and those boxes were cages packed to the brim with skeletons.

It was no coincidence that the Arunn Kingdom had set up shop here: a forest.

Before they came, it was a habitat for a particular Dark Elf clan.

Peters and Khan had stepped forward first, a bungee cord having long connected Khan's collar to his belt. The flashlight that turned on had revealed corpses and skeletons that had been, thankfully dead.

The two Rangers weren't' exactly aghast at the condition that these skeletons died in.

They'd seen worse done to the living, courtesy of the slave emancipations. Even if they hadn't been desensitized to such an ancient sight they would've pushed on, walking among the final tombs of the living.

"These dark elves?" Peters asked out, his flashlight beam passing over the figures, both low and high.

Emerson had nodded, but not confidently. When it came down to the bone elves and humans had been the same. "Probably. The Arunians didn't have much reason to lock up this many humans."

This was all that elongated room was: a chamber for the tested on. The two Rangers didn't need much investigation to figure that out. "Must've been easy for them," Peters let slip past his tongue. "To lock up those not the same species as you."

Emerson had passed him, petting Khan on the way, the dog uncomfortable being around so many bodies. The human brain had a section of it dedicated to recognizing the human head, skull, face and all. Perhaps dogs had the same recognition after so many generations evolving with man.

"Eternal life was at stake, Peters, the things people would do for such privileges…" The captain knelt down before a cage, cobweb and dust having settled among rotted corpses. The stains of flesh was still left on them in a gruesome display. Emerson's stomach could take it though, his free hand, fingertips out, touching the arms of a body that had died, head against the bars, arms out and free. He had only placed them back into the cage for no apparent reason but the impulse to do so. "Damn shame."

"You identify with them?" Peters voice, if he had been casted, sounded the like the voice of God. It was deep, and in that moment, questioning enough about the nature of a man that Emerson thought it had been a deity. He hadn't an answer immediately as they continued to pass the cages and their contents.

"I'm still capable of basic empathy, Peters." There was scorn and annoyance behind his voice.

"Know you are sir." he said with a breathy sigh. "Just don't get too empathetic. You're not a dark elf, nor are you from this world."

They reached the end of that "storage space", Emerson raising two fingers and pointing out back the way they came. No need to stay. He didn't ignore what the dog handler said however. He even winced.

"I know, Peters, I know…" And yet he still wore the tips of his ears. Emerson, more than anyone, was a product of his environment. Here he was a dark elf among the dark elf dead, amongst the ashes of souls that once were, and he was asked if he was one of them. Some answers are left undiscovered for a reason; unexplored to keep life simple.

"One day _**we will**_ leave this place. This Special Task Force might remain, but we? Us? We will move on. What we carry with us will decide how much of this Region will remain inside of us. We have a home, and it's not here. These skeletons? They have their closet, and they don't need yours."

The captain had swept his flashlight across the room, looking for some unknown object that he had made in his mind as the words came and went. Peters hadn't known if Emerson listened, and he hadn't the priorities to care if he did right now, but he had said his two cents.

Khan on the other hand had been pattering his paws incessantly, wanting to get out of that place.

"Let's find these pears so we can exfil. Hooah?" Emerson turned, walking past his soldier with intent.

Peters tightened his lips as he shook his head to himself. It was no use after all. _"Hooah."_

* * *

Across worlds and eras, the makings of a lab was the same, and whatever the Arunn Kingdom had been doing, they had the right equipment to do something about it. Whether it had been reading material or sharp knives.

What a body did under buckshot was also the same as Masterson destroyed the remnants of any of the dead walkers they left behind. The pieces of skin that he had sent scattered in that aisle of a lab had dirtied the place, but not enough to really be a detriment in their search.

"I swear to _**God**_ ," Masterson racked his shotgun back while ghost loading another shell, the team behind him sweeping over the wooden counters looking for any trace of what they were looking for, a clue at least. "I never knew zombies could be so damn noyin'."

Hauvsbaum, being team sniper, had the best vision, but even through that damned gas mask she had been searching for text with Sanders: looking for any indication of what happened in that lab and if it could've led them to where the Arunnians grew whatever they needed to grow.

Potion bottles had survived, one of them in Hauvsbaum's hands as she put it in front of Sanders, reading over the faded notes as the rest of Masterson's team continued to mop up the remains. "What's this say Mia?"

Sanders gave it a quick glance before returning to the notes. "Ah, freeze, cool- something to that nature." She tried to translate as her eyes looked down on a particular recipe looking segment of the papers.

Hauvsbaum had given the potion one last regard before settling it down where she found it. "What the hell were you guys researching in here?" She asked herself aloud. Tons of potions and designs for blades had littered the dilapidated work space, no bigger than a regular class room.

"Ah," Sanders was clearly flustered between two languages as she flubbed between English and Lingua Franca as she answered. "A lot of terminology regarding responses, reactions, attack maybe? I don't know. I think chemical potions meant for offensive use."

"The hell's that metal monster for then?"

Difference between a science class room and that lab however had been the rather redundant iron maiden like device in the center of the room. Nothing had been in it, but there had been damage and marring within the insides that indicated punches of power beyond belief. Someone or something had been fighting to get out of it: chains and other cuffs inside of it making a point as to the constraints that these scientists needed on their subject.

As papers and other objects flew as more of the cleanup crew turned into scavengers, it was quickly becoming clear that this room hadn't the answers to the problem they were looking for. Just a piece of history they were, increasingly, about to abandon for some other recon team in the future.

"Come on, scientists are supposed to be organized right? Some of these notes gotta tell us where the fucking fruit is." Masterson had haphazardly kept throwing papers onto the floor in between looking at the entrance to that particular lab. "Always does in the Elder Scrolls."

"Thankfully sir we're more Call of Duty than Elder Scrolls."

"Well Tony, all things considered we're a crossover, don't you think?" Masterson's eyes darted over what he saw, and he didn't think it was relevant, his mind running at a million miles an hour. No time to spare apparently. "Alright, come on let's move, I think I saw a lab in the next room over."

The Rangers had operated in that fast principle, all affirming and dropping everything as they readied their weapons again and got ready for the next place in their backtracking move. With Masterson at the reins he knew best, and Hauvsbaum had been more than happy to leave the mess she made away as she started walking out with the rest of her squad.

Not before the corner of her eye through the glass of her mask saw something however.

Even if Hauvsbaum hadn't been the best in learning the Lingua Franca, she had known enough to recognize the name of an apostle they all very much dearly knew. It caused her to nearly slip on the blood and the notes on the floor as she snapped herself back, grasping at the bundle of papers where that sight of a name came from.

It came from an open book: and the pages that it had been open to, at that moment, had been the sketches and diorama of an Apostle, at the time of writing, only five hundred or so years into her duty.

She also knew enough to start reading what the rest of the page said.

" _Holy fuck._ "

Sanders had heard it as she left the room, turning back and checking on her battle buddy. "What is Danny?"

"Sergeant Masterson, I need you back in here, _**now**_."


	42. 2-20: New Colossus

A/n: I have returned, and in the time since I've last updated I've written drafts for three other stories, producing a video game, and a bunch of other stuff.

Let's get back to it. Never good to lose the reading flow if you're a reader, trust me, I know.

 _ **Really**_ \- I'm not sure if this is the story you want to help propagate your soul to be honest, but I hear you. Hope I don't disappoint with 50 pages this chapter.

 _ **TheTrueWrath -**_ Yeah, I've been trying to bring stuff in the source material down to where we are now as best I can, but naturally I like being able to explore those concepts the Manga puts down before they happen in canon. Adds a little more conciseness and maybe helps me do what I want to do with this story without waiting for my story timeline to match with the Manga's.

As for the reaction from Kurata and Kincaid?

I'll give you two versions.

In one version, one of them, either of them, both of them find out what's happened to the maids. They found out exactly what's happened. They find out that Delilah did what she did, what happened because of it, and who was implicated as well. They find out, through knowing the Rangers, that there may or might not be CIA assets in the Special Region. They suspect Beckett is that CIA asset.

Then they realize that, it wasn't some Imperial or vigilante Marine or JSDF Troop that did what they did the maids and the servants. It was, indeed, the Central Intelligence Agency, and, more specifically, the man who in my world hunted down Osama Bin Laden, survived Dubai, and walks as a man with a mission in a world that does not comprehend why he exists.

They cannot just beat the shit out of a CIA station chief. They cannot just confront a CIA Agent, tell him that the servants and maids are innocent, and that beating them, torturing them was bad. They cannot, with the knowledge and the hints of what the CIA truly does, be able to directly confront a man acting on behalf of a government, an office, and an intelligence agency that not only ended the War on Terror, but created it.

And so all they can do is just stand there, and watch, as beaten people brush shoulders with those they cannot tell of the deeds performed by the men in black. And that inaction boils in Kincaid, and in Kurata, and those tortured themselves. Of justice and righteousness that needs to be taken; of the actions you wish could do that keep you up at night that you think make the world a better place.

And so they might, perhaps, see it the way as a generation in the Middle East has seen it. Of a child, who stood idly by in the black night, as men in multicam and suppressed rifles broke into your home to kill your father, your mother, on false suspicions planted by the very people they were hunting.

In another version:

The tortured never share their plight, their pain, their horrors that had befallen them on the threat of death. And so Kurata and Kincaid and all those like them, never realize what was done to them until it was too late. Until one of them is broken, not by the CIA and how no one ever noticed them, but by themselves. A self-fulfilling prophecy, carried out because that is how humanity in war works.

They might've not understood Delilah, however she thought when attacking Arnus Hill that night, then. But they would understand her eventually, and when they break, so too would a system made by the Special Task Force, from the inside out.

Both of these versions end in an eventuality seen again and again in a place we will always return to. It's been nearly twenty years since the War on Terror as we Americans, in majority, understand it to have begun. When you've been wronged, and keep it down inside you, think about what twenty years does to such a preserved emotion?

 _ **In General**_ \- I've been working on a lot of the chapters running up to first contact with the Dark Elves. It's a bit further, but the battle itself is around three chapters long.

Looking back on how I worked with this chapter, it might be a bit too on the nose, but I tried my best.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-20**_

 _ **Posted on 6/16/17**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 64**_

 _ **Falmart - The**_ ** _Labyrinth - With Emerson's Detachment_**

* * *

Suddenly the pears weren't so important. Suddenly the trail leading to the American supposedly enslaved by the Empire wasn't one they were following. They didn't question why or fight themselves to stay focused. Missions often changed while out there in the field, but today the details were more than just inconveniences or revelations about an enemy cell.

Masterson's eyes had flashed over once as his mouth opened, agape at what he was looking at, combing through the pages of that book. The SOCOM part of him spoke out, the one he had in his genes, courtesy of his parents. The part of him that made him eligible for top secret clearance; the part of him that was able to look at a piece of paper and see ten thousand words where there were only ten. The part of him that made him don a mask and start being what his training wanted him to be. " _You_ _ **positive**_ **?** "

 _Are you 100% sure this is translating to what you think it is? Are you willing to bet, not your life, but the lives of hundreds, on what is written here? Do you put down your name to it?_

"A part of containment is knowing how to deal with a breach, sergeant." Sanders said with all her heart. "How many times have you known me to be wrong, Cam?"

The man gave out a heavy breath as, down the hall, the rest of his Rangers tore up another lab as he and Sanders stood there, before that book of secrets. "There was that one time in Yokohama you tried speaking Albanian to the Russian Ambassador." he tried shaking off the seriousness, but he couldn't not when the pictures drawn in that book looked up at him.

"Sergeant," she rephrased. "How many times have I, or any of us, have failed you in this deployment?"

Masterson had nodded with urgency he tore over himself. No. His Rangers had been good to him and Kay. That was given in the work they did, every day, down the bits and pieces at their feet that very moment.

Out in the hallway he had heard a burst from automatic fire from one of his fireteam. Even in a task as benign as searching out ruins did they exude violence.

At least this time it was against the undead, the sound of a body falling on hard stone reassuring him.

They'd gone a good two weeks without killing a human. He knew it was two weeks since he had felt that previously unidentifiable burden be lifted in his chest.

He knew its absence like chapped lips knew moisture, how one knows what breathing is like when in the middle of a cold.

One step a time, he had told himself. "Alright, bag it up, that document is _**Yankee-White**_ **."** His Texas twang left him as he spoke the language of SOCOM. He spoke the language that the Deltas in Tehran had spoken with as they infiltrated Iran's Central Bank and found Iran's national gold reserve; the language used by SEAL Team Six when they looked over the body of a 6'5 man and called him _**Geronimo**_.

The net for the Rangers had come aloud. Hauvsbaum had seen what Sanders came across and there was no reason to keep secrets among themselves.

"Masterson, is what I'm hearing correct?" Papers and glasses fell to the floor behind the radio transmitting.

"Affirmative Private Rockwell."

"Shit, that's big league language." Out from Masterson's bag had been a hazmat bag, Hauvsbaum handing over the book as it was slid in and zipped up tight.

"Well guess what boy, we're _**big leaguers**_."

Emerson had come walking in with Peters at that very moment, motioning over the bag and its contents before they were placed with Masterson. Only one look at the plainly translated title of that journal had left no mystery to what it entailed.

Emerson's eyes burned as his gloves felt the old pages beneath his fingers, through the bag. This was a secret too great for him to hold. There was a reason this place was abandoned and invaded. He snapped his eyes up to his fireteam sergeant. "Cam, after we get back to Crety and secure any relevant intel we need an instant extract with this and get back across the Gate. I'm sure Beckett would want that to happen."

"Oh boy, we're CIA SOGs now?" Masterson's sneer was comforting, if not reminding.

Blood from dead woman walkers had been soaked into their soles, leaking, staining where they stood. With one scoff, the search for the pears was overhauled and double timed. "Let's hope not."

* * *

 ** _Falmart - Koda Village MP Base - Refugee Processing Station_**

* * *

In and out. That was usually how missions went with Force Recon. Here, more than ever, that had been the preferable way of doing things.

Lyncher had been called again out to defuse a volatile situation regarding slave emancipations on a plantation to the north of Italica and the Corridor, giving them relief from the boredom that had been staying on base.

Naturally, with the word about being that slaves and indentured servants were being forcibly saved by the Men in Green, some of the remaining owners of the Empire below the mountain range separating them and the Capital had taken up arms and hired mercenaries to keep any slaves safe from this new, unknown force.

No mercenary force however, no matter how veteran and armed, would be able to stop any kind of task force put out by the JSDF and the Marines.

Especially not Force Recon. As was the reason why, instead of being helo'd back entirely, Lyncher had opted to ride back with a few carts of Slaves being escorted by RCT4 back to the Corridor.

There was no usable intel regarding any American or Japanese slaves from Ginza, and thus Force Recon had backed off while the JSDF went in and collected the slaves.

The threatening hum of the black helicopters above, the MEU's Little Birds, had escorted them back out, warding off several horse riders that kept themselves way too close for their liking.

It was an uneventful and relatively short ride out into the wilderness to rendezvous at a burning plantation: the only things left being the bodies of the slave owner and his family cast into the dirt of salted ground. Slaves, when left to their own devices by the JSDF and the Marines, were more often than not able to take justice into their own hands when the Marines argued against subduing or capturing their masters.

They weren't a police force after all. All justice, ideally, was local according to Special Task Force command.

Immigration into the Corridor had been tightly controlled via designated points up and down the territory of Italica and Arnus Hill: patrols up and down the length of the Corridor corralling new and new immigrants and refugees to the appropriate MP stations for registration under, if picked up on the Arnus Half of the Corridor, the Japanese.

It was one such MP station that Lyncher had returned to now as they disembarked their horse drawn cart and revealed themselves to the Japanese and Rory's MPs.

It was hustle and bustle as usual, in the former village known as Koda, transformed into one of the main MP bases for Rory and the JSDF.

The American immigration stations had been more a free for all (which is to say there were none). It wasn't up to the Americans, Pierce had thought with insistence from Sevson, to comb the refugees coming into the Corridor. There was no need. People could come and go as they please.

No insurgency, no worries. Any of those who had held ill-will against the Special Task Force could be dealt with on a one by one basis; that is, if there were any (alive) who still held those feelings. There was no intel pointing toward such ill-will even with Delilah's attack, according to the resident CIA chief: Agent Beckett.

The Japanese hadn't enjoyed this however. It was immediately identifiable who had come through Italica just by the fact they had not interim Japanese IDs.

Lyncher didn't need any identification sans the patch on their arms: the skull of the 7th MEU's Force Recon. Out from the bale of hay they had been hiding in, they appeared before the JSDF MPs and the STALMP like ghosts, the local MPs getting spooked as they appeared out of nowhere.

One had been a large, biped canine, his black armband over brown fur, build like a werewolf, his break action rifle in his hands. The metaphorical leash that had been held was by the JSDF MPs with him: fully geared and loaded. The other local MPs had that grave look to their eyes, as if they had been berated children.

It was understandable if they literally were. Ever since Delilah had broken ground at Arnus Hill, the JSDF tightened its grip on local forces, or else. The Marine command had made it clear that no mistake costing the life of an American would be treated lightly, and Arnus came close with the injuries on Lieutenant Commander Blackburn and Corporal Jasper Kincaid.

Yanagida had been walking, albeit with a limp, still working. Blackburn had yearned for the same productivity however, desperately trying to keep his work load attended to from his hospital room. Them both had only been operating out of pure medicinal, bureaucratic rage.

Kincaid had suffered scarring wounds across the side of his face: almost as if a dragon had reached out and clawed at him.

Word from the Fromar Keep had been that the medusa maid who had taken a liking to him had thought it all the more attractive... not that anyone had seen any of the Fromar Maids on their regular routines ever since that night. None had been seen leaving the Fromar Keep, but Ryolu, Lelei's assistant, had said they were alive.

"Not that they seem like it." As said he to Valentine one day, having been paid by the man, in the interim as Lelei was out on her dragon hunting quest, to keep an eye on Tyuwaru. "They look away from me whenever I call for them, hiding themselves… It's odd."

Pierce and Sevson had no comment, not when they had disappeared back into Camp Omega's CP and been greenlighting with the USFJ about further troop and logistics movements through the Alpha Point in order to beef up their stance.

Not against the Imperials, but rather the Japanese.

They wanted to make a point about who had been the big dogs here.

"Force Recon?" The JSDF MP Captain had asked, his round face looking at the fireteam that emerged from the cart to the sound of the refugee convoy thanking them.

Captain Jack, the Force Recon lead, a Latino man with a voice, deep and croaky, had been the voice which the JSDF had to listen to in his acceptable Japanese.

"Lyncher. We took the long way back with these refugees from Llwelyn. Mercs were ghosting us all the way back before we hooked up with the Little Birds."

The MP Captain had a clip board with him, looking up and down the seven cart or so convoy, apparently uninterested in Captain Jack's explanation. JSDF didn't care much for it, having the MARSOC team cover the refugees meant that majority RCT4 could've been deployed somewhere else to exert JSDF presence in the Region.

Apparently that the RCTs had a running game of how many slaves that they were freeing.

The Marines didn't keep track, and, at some point, the locals began to notice.

The very fact that some of the uninitiated peoples between Italica and the Capital had now recognized the JSDF colors had meant something.

That was how influence was supposed to work after all: perhaps, somewhere between slaves getting rescued and the Empire being dismantled by the bone below the mountain range, there had been a few runners, like Paul Revere's Minutemen, yelling out "The Enemy from Arnus Hill are coming!". Warning them of their weapons that looked like trumpets or giant iron cocks.

They weren't alone, outside the immigration station. Hardly. It was like the line up to a carnival ride, except with its line waiters much more ragged (to a point). Bare feet, with all that they had on their back: symbols of the Empire burned in piles as they realized that the Empire had no power here.

It was a point reiterated by the loud screeching of the MPs through their megaphones yelling of safety and who they were as if they were one and the same.

The wolf MP however had sensed something… off. He sniffed at the air, droning out all the noise before the Marine could come over and voice that something indeed had been off.

The sound of all the commotion was only beat out by the wail of a woman.

Captain Jack had been antsy, if not because of the Imperials, but because the lead cart had been told to stop as if it was bumper to bumper traffic leading into the station. "What's the hold up sir?"

RCT4 had disappeared up ahead, taking positions on security. Captain Jack had grimaced. How come it was the Rangers that got the RCT that played ball?

"All of them gotta go through processing before we let them into the Corridor. It's bad enough that you Americans just let any of them come in without notice over at Italica's end."

Jack had raised an eye brow as he tsked, looking back at an almost empty cart. "Fuckin' rush hour traffic? This is Koda Village sir, not the Mexican border."

The MP raised an eyebrow. "You act like I know what the Mexican border is like."

It was in that almost empty cart that Valentine had stood in, rifle at the ready, the Force Recon medic squatting in the bed as the horses stirred at the sound of a woman wailing.

That had gotten the MP's attention as the wolf smelt the air and smelled, not death, but life.

"What's going on?" The MP crossed his arms fast as he followed Jack back to that cart.

He didn't need to answer as they all peered into the cart and saw a woman with an enlarged belly, laying on her back in extreme pain, legs spread.

The medic had been frantically in between her legs, a sheet over them for bare privacy.

"How she doing Josh?"

The medic popped out from under the sheet, his gear tossed aside leaving him only in his t-shirt, it itself bloodied along with his hands. The look on his face wasn't optimistic. "Baby's not comin' out head first, if at all. I don't have the tools or the place to preform cesarean, so we need to get her to a first aid tent or back to Arnus ASAP."

It was this urgency that finally changed the tone of all involved.

"Christ," Valentine had been antsy. He had a baby on the way, back home, In Seattle. "You certified?"

Josh glowered as he rocked his head. "I really don't want to do this Valentine, Jack."

The scout sniper saw the uncertainty in the medic's face, between panic and desperation.

"Please tell me all child birth isn't like this Doc." Valentine said, standing in the cart, protectively.

"Oh, I'm sure your kid isn't going to be born under such- oh god dammit- such interesting circumstances." He had poked out from out between her legs to the lady herself. "Just keep breathing ma'am. Just keep breathing we'll get you help soon."

 _"Fuckin' give her a hit of the good stuff Josh."_

"Can't risk any complications, she's been under fuckin' a lot of stress already."

It didn't take a medical professional to field that statement, not when one look had revealed a contorted face, sweat coated, anguish in her lines. She had been far beyond speaking, the pain having seized her voice as her dirty brown hair cascaded in sticky strands behind her face.

For Valentine it had been hard to look at her like this, and she had been a stranger. To think of his wife going in like this… It didn't stick well in his mind. Not at all. But he had thanked his stars for being born in the right world then and there and not this one.

The one where refugees dressed like Romans and came here for the sake of indulging themselves of a fantasy of their own: the modern world.

Even in North Korea, behind enemy lines with Pierce during his counter offensive, Valentine never was once thought he had gone back in time as, even in the downtime (which measured minutes between days and days of fighting) troops had taken out their smartphones and looked at what they held dear, a thousand miles away.

Here however, well… he had learned that people bleed for the same reason, and some of these refugees had walked to the Corridor, to their police stations and outposts which were under the umbrella of the JSDF and the USMC.

Some of those refugees had heard the commotion, turning around in their slow lines.

Captain Jack had shown her, and only her, to the MP. Nothing to say of the other carts that trailed them from the village. Nothing of the slaves, collars and chains still on them. This pregnant woman in labor had caught their attention.

"She needs to get into your medical center now. Can't be waiting like this."

The MP had nodded, almost agreeing, but his words betrayed him. "We'll have medics come out here as soon as we can."

Jack did a double take as Josh popped out from between her legs. "What's the fuckin' problem about bringing her to the FULLY OUTFITTED office?!"

"She's not one of ours yet, and if we make an exception for her!" The Japanese MP slipped into and out of Japanese and English. "All of these people will want their exception! And I'm sure they have better reasons."

"Says who?" Jack waved his arms about. "They've waited this long, they can wait a bit more!"

"Policy says!" The bald MP had bit back. "We keep to policy!"

Policy. The only answer that mattered.

The reason why they were there was putting this woman, and her child's, life at risk. Disbelief was within the veins of all the Marines, of even a few of the JSDF that stood by and heard, but those that adhered, were those that had their positions for a reason. "I can't make her forgo the process just because of this. We'll bring medics over here and she can remain in line."

"I don't want to do this!" Josh had clamped both his hands on the MPs shoulders, hands digging into his blades, "She needs help!"

"I know!" The MP yelled back, hands placed upon Josh's, pushing him off. He figured the American was deaf. "We'll handle it!"

"Then do something!"

 _ **"Do I look like a Medic to you?! Just wait!"**_

 _ **"Don't tell me, tell her!"**_

The two soldiers had argued, the Americans obviously arguing for the woman. The MP had argued for policy however. It was a policy that was there for a reason.

Policy however was like breathing to the JSDF, in the footsteps of the 7th MEU and its veterans.

You don't fuck it up, else a generational war happens, so they told themselves.

The American scheme of immigration had always been all at once, chaotic, all encompassing. Italica had opened her arms to the refugees, the sick and weary who decided to come there instead of to the JSDF, and they were allowed in simply with nothing more than an ID given that was stood in place of a Japanese one in the Corridor.

The Japanese would never just see it more than policy to carry out or fail however. Immigration was an American tenant, the foundation of a country, inscribed upon the foundation of her face to the world.

* * *

 _manifest destiny_

 _ **"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."**_

 _Emma Lazarus, 1883_

* * *

There was more to simply letting in people to live a slice of their lives than just shifting them through lines and paper work to officiate their arrivals.

Captain Jack knew best: a Cuban immigrant who, upon seeing this line at Koda, snarled. He couldn't even fully tolerate what the lines at the actual Corridor stations would look like.

What it meant to arrive, to immigrate, to be a refugee and step before them, the Americans, people of a modern world, was that it was that they were willing to do something that spoke to a dream.

An American one.

That's what the 7th MEU liked to think anyway, before and after the attack on Arnus Hill.

Of course maybe that was the mirage; the grandeur of an American dream being the same as it always was. Maybe the refugees just came here for that selfish reasoning of just wanting to live easy.

There was a problem with these two, separate, but equal, processes of immigration. On one hand: those that went through the JSDF process had been properly Nipponized, given their papers, everything they needed to, if needed, integrate into Japan.

However on the other: those who came through Italica, and indeed, it was a familiar point for many of the refugees to go to, they were given simply an ID. An ID stamped by the marking of the US Government. This ID would've given them what they needed to integrate into the Corridor and use what it offered from the municipals that Lelei had been quickly building up from police, to work opportunities, to housing.

What that meant, however, was that, out of lack of any other title, a good portion of the refugees had become sponsored by America. So they had been labeled Americans.

 _"We had to wait for days to get ours!"_ Whined some of the refugees to their American counter parts.

 _"Why would you have to wait? We were told it's a_ _ **right**_ _."_

There were merchants there, those who had gotten through immigration, come back out to offer the tastes of modern living at a premium: a preview to what these refugees could expect. Numerous peddlers had existed up and down the line, yelling of good food, good beer, good clothes, ointments and novelties that they were selling now.

It wasn't snake oil.

Just Family Mart brand aspirin to help these inching forward masses to get past these last few hours of processes and policy.

They didn't help anyone, these merchants, egging on the refugees, wanting them to expedite the processes so they too could get to the source of these new and wonderful goods.

Aspirin wouldn't be much help to the woman in labor however.

The cry of a woman always drew attention, and the silence gritted through the Marine Medic's teeth had boiled over into his sweat, only to serve him to remember how unsterile this environment was.

Josh wasn't used to arguing policy on the field, where he had gone before with Force Recon.

She, and he, deserved better, as the words of the MP drowned out and he stepped away, back to where he was at the lip of the cart.

"Hey Jack!"

"What?!"

"You said I get to command shit when it comes to medical matters right?!"

"It's the same as it always was Doc!"

Josh had snapped his arm, pointing at people so fast it had made the sound of wind being pushed. "David take the reins! We're moving this into the camp!"

Valentine had looked at the slaves they had just freed, still in that convoy of those that came back. "Hey?! What about them?"

"They're in JSDF hands now. Not our responsibility."

The appointed operator had taken the reins from the man, he silently obliging, getting off and backing away as the cart was veered out of line slowly.

Jack had backed away from the MP, shouting out, "Form a circle! We're coming through!"

And so the Operators did as the MP had stepped back, unbelieving of what was happening. More attention was drawn to the crass Americans than he appreciated. Murmurings throughout the crowd began as all eyes fell on the dissenters.

Apparently being with an American meant you got special priority.

Everyone thought themselves special as refugees started to peel off the lines, following the Americans. The Marines had noticed this, but nothing they could say in English or the Lingua Franca could tell these tired people, like zombies, to back off and not follow them.

This spoke with knives, and the language Force Recon was used to was gunfire. They stayed silent as they did only enough to keep the refugees following them a set distance away from them as the MPs yelled at the refugees to stay in line.

Nearly a dozen men had appeared in front of the cart, in front of the Marines.

It was RCT4, at arms and at orders from their lieutenant.

The horses to the cart wouldn't move, even with a Marine at the reins. The Marines on the cart had all immediately stood up, and for reasons felt within their bones their rifles had been either at their hips or at idle. That feeling of having a weapon ready having come at them again, regardless of who they were with.

RCT4's Lieutenant had been more than verbal when his men put up the wall with their bodies. "Can't let you go Lyncher. We have orders!"

Captain Jack had yelled back as he moved himself to the front of the horses, putting himself between it and the RCT. "We don't take orders from you or the JSDF command, out of the way, lieutenant."

"Our orders are to stop you from breaking policy, captain! You can't usurp our policy here on local migration."

"This isn't about fucking migration! This is about a woman who's in need of medical help."

"Which she will get! There's no need to cause a stir when we have people on the way!"

"What's so hard to understand about this?! We're trying to help!"

"We have a way of doing things here! She will live!" The two team leads had clashed verbally, talking in circles. What the Captain saw simply as a benign reassurance JSDF had seen as a momentary taking of charge. But there was someone in charge here, and it hadn't been the Americans. "Stand down, captain! You're destabilizing the situation here!"

Valentine had hit the radio as he felt the hike in his blood pressure, his gut telling him to refer further up. "Any Actuals this net, I need command representatives at the Koda Village firebase ASAP."

"Look here little man! You think you know what's good? Huh?! I've been in Korea longer than I've been in this shithole! I think I know what's best!"

The Little Man had something to say otherwise however. Not when he popped out his chest and let Captain Jack see, in detail, his face. "I was there since day one, Marine. Get off your horse." He recognized shrapnel wounds anyway.

He recognized a veteran when he saw one.

The mettle of men that survived Korea was never exclusively American.

If there was a realization of foolishness that the MARSOC Captain had felt, he hid it, having rubberbanded and seeing the big picture for but a second. This woman meant nothing, she was just lucky to have been found by them, the nature of her plight was no matter to Lyncher.

They found no relevant information about the citizens captured from across the Gate, and so they could've been left to rot by them if the mission needed it.

But they were veterans, heroes, of wars on Earth. This was what they were supposed to do among other things: to keep mothers and their children safe.

And now they were confronted, seemingly, by people willing to stop that.

There was always a reason however, the larger beast of an MP that was the black wolf growling, baring its teeth, only remembering last second that it itself had a gun. They alone, among their ranks of MPs, would go back and talk in the station that night that the Special Task Force was not as unified as they seemed. They would speak about how the Americans and the Japanese were different at a point that they didn't see before.

The new refugees however? That was how they were introduced to the Americans and the Japanese, and in the end, they did not care, for their cries fell upon ears that did not want to listen to their plight.

The operators made a hole by horse and brute force, not stopping, the RCT reluctant to put their hands on anyone out of the repercussions of putting a hand on a Marine with a mission.

 _"Why does she get to go in first?! Huh!? My father is missing a god damned leg!"_

 _"My children are starving!"_

 _"There's something inside of me! I can feel it! Please! Show me your ways and cure me!"_

No exceptions, no lenience in the system. That's what the JSDF thought, looking at American activities in Afghanistan years ago. There had been too many leaks, and the tolerances here had to be tighter, or else.

What had become nothing more than a line through immigration had become a nightmare to several of the Raiders. They were twitching, shaking, in their shoes as they clambered on top of a cart, teeth gritted.

It was a bit more green, less stone and more wood, however in the end their minds elevated their heartbeat and sent them back in time.

And then the crowd was there, following the cart like parasites, a blob, an amoeba making its ways toward the defensive positions of the Koda Village FOB. The shouts of the operators, yelling them to back away, back away, it wasn't enough as the line fell apart from them and latched on, seeing privilege instead of circumstance.

Captain Jack had stood back on the cart, looking over that crowd that surrounded him and his men. The mass, it reminded him of… no, it sent him back in time.

They were all time travelers in some way, but the Marines, as they were coming shoulder to shoulder with dirty refugee, revisited a memory.

A memory of another war, and another country.

They remembered where they were the day Afghanistan had been lost; Kabul, shuffling refugee upon refugee into as many planes and helicopters as they could as the city was surrounded and the Middle East was on the offensive.

"Scan. Keep scanning. Just in case." He said hurriedly, unsure, knowing something had come over him as Valentine looked at his team lead. He was never like this during Korea he knew.

His failures were before him: made by a man in a heavy dress, hidden with bottles of _foogas_ that went off in that powder keg.

"Hey! You!" Captain Jack had to yell over both commotion and a wailing woman as Josh had been on the edge of telling her to shut the fuck up out of misguided frustration. "Get these fucking people under control, or we will!"

"What do you want us to do?!" The MP screamed up, outside of that mass, looking at them from the outside in, overwhelmed.

"Do your job!"

Jack had taken his 590, only to pump it once. He had just told the world what he would do otherwise.

 _This wasn't right. This wasn't right. This wasn't right._

The horde had come to take him again: women and children, Koreans, Afghanis wanting to fly away.

That was what the world did to him: it had made him a combat veteran.

"Back the fuck up!" His thumb on the pump had hit an attached strobe light. The white hot flashes of white had emenated out of his gun as the refugees eeked closer and closer to his cart, only to be forced away by the flashes.

Valentine had gotten the cue as he himself had set his M21 by the woman, drawing his Glock, its own flashlight put on. "Give the lady some space! Back off!"

Guns came up and out, pointed toward refugees pushing toward the cart.

Arms, hands, reaching toward the Marines as if a faceless monster, wanting to be saved.

 _ **"Back them the fuck off, now!"**_

There was something that seemed so desperate, so commanding, about the Marine's yelling, his ordering of the JSDF, that had made them want to respond. His voice had broken through the barrier that made the JSDF believe that either they'd be shot or the refugees if the refugees weren't backed off from the cart.

That was the message given, and what they received as the JSDF soldiers started wedging themselves between moving cart and refugees. That they were the lesser of two evils.

And so they were shoved back in line. Not at gun point, but with force: with hands and physical motions that molded a line of obedience as men and women, clamoring for their own loophole, were shown they were no exceptions to a system that seemed so nice.

These people had not seen what the Special Task Force had to offer.

Though the jobs of the MPs and the immigration personnel were not to offer their best foot forward. Their jobs was to make sure integration was orderly, even if they were like dicks doing so.

Barking. That's what the Force Recon Marines heard from the JSDF as they switched from physical to verbal, yelling, screeching, at those who went out of line to stay in it, or _**get out**_.

Suddenly there was peace, and the commotion stopped, and it was all brought about by something called fear.

"We can't do that!" A shove, and a man was on the ground after raising his arms to an MP. "Sit the fuck down! _**Or I'll put you down!**_ We'll handle this."

And so all the resident could was cry out, " _What did I do wrong?_ "

The sirens that came from the medical vehicles only added to the chaos.

* * *

 _ **Falmart - Warlord 1-3's Unit - The Natural Border between Italica's Land Holdings and the Elbe Fiefdom**_

* * *

Itami, Bannon, Lelei, and Annel had taken a rather conveniently placed rowboat across that river, the rest of the convoy waiting for what information they could gather from the nomadic traders across the way. Lelei could tell they had been nomads just by how they dressed: the skin of bulls and the furs of the land had been on their shoulders, their hats furry and conical.

In the winter these people had usually come back to the Capital or one of the larger cities within the Imperial territories and vassal states, but in the summer and spring they had made the land their home.

The recent history of Falmart, minus the sudden appearance of a flame dragon and the near apocalyptic war that had been brought by going into the opened Gate on Arnus Hill, had been peaceful enough for these people to be plentiful and for this style of life to be applicable.

"Ave. Hail to Emperor Molt." Even then the nomads knew who owned that land supposedly. They didn't say it out of malice to the three strangers, it was just how they normally did greet. A large, browned shirtless man with that same conical hat they all wore had emerged up front to greet the three properly.

The dozen of them had been friendly enough, they had helped the four moor themselves in, but even then there was no sense in casting away precaution.

The big man, seven foot tall and wide seemingly, had repeated the greetings to the two soldiers before looking down to Lelei. That was when he had opened up a palm flat and bowed his head. _"Rehukipay."_

By pure instinct Lelei had bowed her head in response. _"Rehukipay."_

Bannon and Itami had looked at each other, unable to translate that word. Lelei had been quick to clarify as the formalities were done away with. "It is the greeting groups of Rurudo nomads use to greet each other." she explained in the Lingua Franca.

The big man had nodded. "It means "One at Heart."" Lelei had smiled in some gratitude. "I am not one of you, but we have met the Rurudo before."

Bannon had patted Lelei's back, cocking her hips. "Well, she's the only one we know, so uh, thanks for telling us."

Big, but not mean. Bald, but not bad. "My name is Cyro Fla Grama. This is my family." He outstretched his hand toward all of them. Their temporary settlement had looked like something out of the Mongolian nomads still out there in Middle Asia, Itami had noted: their tents large, accommodating, but apparently not bound to one place. Their carts tucked and locked down underneath further tents along with their trusty steeds, currently hissing at them from afar: oversized badgers it seemed like.

Still, who were they to judge over their mounts?

Annel had come over just as security, as per standard operating procedure, so she had turned her face away from the conversation. Her watch cap had been rolled up to her forehead, a frizzy pony tail poking out from behind it as she chewed gum from one of her MREs.

The Marines and the Rangers had been going on one meal for the last three days, more or less. Itami however and his refugees had been fed properly. Not that it mattered. They were starving out of discipline. Not out of lack of food. It was that discipline that made sure they were able to make the journey there and back at least somewhat healthy. As long as they were unhappy after all, as the common knowledge was, they were liable to kill.

That was what was expected of them.

Bannon had held Annel in high opinion, as she did all of her squad, but there was a certain respect she had for the rifleman. She was changed in training in the same way she was: victim to a streamlined process that had been practiced on her by a man that connected them.

She was taught by the same teacher in her Ranger training, and because of that she, more than ever, displayed her adherence to those taught principles better than Masterson, Emerson, or even her squad lead. She didn't get herself caught up in Chuka like half of Hitman.

She was doing her job, and _**only**_ her job.

Walker would've been proud she imagined. Not that she had cared. To gain pride from that man was to seek praise from the devil, and she had enough trouble dealing with the apostle of one right now.

"My name is Itami Youji, this is Lisa Bannon, my second in command with one of her soldiers: Barbara Annel." Itami started, settling back into the grove of things. Hazama had been quite pleased with how friendly he had been to those refugees he did become acquainted with. It also helped that he had befriended enough orphans in the Corridor that they kept him busy instead of their more complicated elders. "Also, this is Lelei La Lelena the-"

That and they were more fun to read manga with…

"Oh, one of Italica's chiefs? Right?" Cyro had known. The three of them nodded. "One of Italica's traders met up with us a few days ago, his clothes were all patched up and what with this new fabric I've never seen before. Quite wonderful they were… I think we ordered a new blanket through him."

Lelei La Lelena: chief of Italica. The governing arm of the child-sized body that was Italica's government. She did her job well, Sergeant Major Freeman and Major Sevson had noted.

 _"Better than the fucking tribal chiefs out of Afghan."_ Sevson spoke to Pierce once about her. Maybe it wasn't a high precedent to break, but Lelei had leaned toward cooperation more than independence. That was what made Italica and the Corridor bloom on her half.

Bannon had shook her head in some comic observation. "Patches seems to have been getting around."

Cyro had looked over at their mounts and the people on the other side of the river. "Trying to cross the river, are ye?"

Lelei had nodded. "We were hoping you would provide assistance by calling the ferries."

Lelei had described a solution to part of the problem: at least for the Humvees. The Empire had thought it wise, over the course of expansion and using of the waterlane, to set up something of a brown water force. Not so much a navy as much as it was public transportation. That included ferrying carts over the rivers within the Imperial domain.

The Elbe Fiefdom had been a part of the Empire per se, but it was a big Fiefdom at that, enough so that there could a differential in politics and tributes that the Elbe Fiefdom fed in as opposed to say, an almost equally powerful Italica.

Despite this, the Elbe Fiefdom had taken this assistance from the Empire for its settlers on the plains. It was this same assistance that Lelei had been counting on, even if she hadn't revealed said information until they had been toeing the water line.

"Do you not know the smoke signal for them?" Cyro cocked his hands on his hips.

"It's been a long time since I've traveled the land, sir. Will you help us?"

In the foreground one of the children had patted the horse sized badger's head, and it had responded kindly in the hiss that honey badgers made. Bannon had known they were of the type at first glance: there had been a pelt of a honey badger in her father's room when she was a child. Africa was never really so far away in their private rooms in their mansion in Montana.

What was alien and foreign to some, whether it be tea or language, had never really been an issue with Bannon as she gave the badger a blank gaze. She was used to knowing what a foreign world was like, inside her family's homestead in Montana: dusted by red sand that her parents had metaphorically carried all the way from Rhodesia.

She didn't have that bias, the one that made Itami raise his eyebrow and shake his head as if ridding his mind of the image.

The badger barred its teeth at Bannon. It was smiling.

She smiled back in her awkward way before realizing what she was doing. It was enough to garner a laugh from Lelei, hidden beneath the sleeve of her robes.

Cyro had nodded to Lelei's question almost immediately. "Of course." he answered simply, turning away as if that was all to it, returning to his stump of a log in front of his tent and looking over a simmering fire. The four visitors had stood, confused, as Cyro raised an eyebrow at them before finally relenting. "Ah, please join us, if you're in no hurry."

Annel had winged Bannon as she turned around, alerting her. "I'll watch the boat."

Bannon nodded, giving her rifleman a pat in affirmative as she, Itami, and Lelei moved forward uneasily. The sense of awkwardness they felt had been unseen by the nomads, enough so that, as they approached Cyro and sat down, several of his party came out and casually greeted them.

It felt more like a Native American Pow Wow than it had been just a simple day in the life for these people: the chunks of meat, kebab'd by straight sticks, that Cyro had been fussing over had smelt gamey, but no less edible. He tended to them as a smaller woman rested on his arm, having waited for him patiently to return from talking to these new people.

All around them a family was simply going on its day to day business: water from the river had been brought over in buckets as those in the nude showered with them. Resting men and women laid nearly bare in the shade of their tents, those who hadn't been asleep simply doing something, whether it had been cleaning and pruning of the skin of the tents or chopping up firewood. All of them had dark skin by nature, the sun beating down on them all their lives.

"Yes, I'll get the signals ready after we eat. It'd be a shame to smoke out our fires before using them fully." Cyro said, knowing better, nodding.

"Not because you're lazy?" The young woman, leaning on his arm had teased.

"Perhaps…" he glanced to the woman before looking across to the visitors, still vaguely silent as they kept looking over their shoulders at the group across the river. "This is my daughter, Zyra."

Itami and Bannon refocused their attention, Itami speaking first, raising his hand flat. "Nice to meet you, your father is doing us a huge favor."

"No need to thanks." Cyro had answered as his daughter nodded her head, up and down, knowing that her father had been a good man. Her hair was cut short, almost to the point of boyishness, but that was out of pure pragmatic necessity. "What example would I be giving my daughter if I didn't help people in need?"

And so parenting was the same across worlds, evidently enough. It didn't make Itami or Bannon feel any better about their own predicament however.

"Must be dangerous, being out here." Itami had said quietly, looking around them.

Cyro had shook his head. "Not at all. The Imperial Legionnaires stationed in Elbe keep the peace rather well… most of the time, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Lelei asked of another nomad.

"We don't know, but in the last six months or so we have seen less and less Imperial Legionnaires and bandits… A General Foulke and Hebron were gathering the raiders for something at Italica and Arnus Hill… perhaps it was the Flame Dragon."

Bannon rubbed her left eye, remembering very much of what those raiders gathered by the Imperial legionnaires had wanted at Italica. Also she had been reminded of what had happened to the two generals.

One had one upped her in eye loss, and the other was currently held in detention with the rest of his surviving men from Italica and Arnus below Mt. Fuji in the prison camps in the Forest of Death.

"Weren't we called to serve too, father?" Cyro's daughter asked.

Cyro shook his head. "Yes, and I know Catalak's family went. Damn shame."

Lelei furrowed her eyebrows. "How do you mean, sir?"

Cyro grew distant for a second, looking back at his tent. His vision had drawn the gazes of the Special Task Force as well. What they had seen was not out of place at all: the flag of empire. The purple, dragon emblazed, cross of an insignia of the Empire had been seared onto the skin of the tents.

It hadn't been in any malicious way however, not as Cyro nodded at it as if it was sentient. It had been no different than the markings of the American flag being applied to hats and stickers.

"Legionnaires were never kind to the raiders. Would be a damn shame if they didn't show up again soon…" Cyro had set his cooking down as he looked at the adults, seeing the scars. "Are you…?"

Lelei had been quick to answer. "They are _**my**_ legionnaires."

There was something inherently wrong to the soldiers as they heard that, Bannon shifting her Enfield uncomfortably. She wanted to say something, anything, to correct Lelei to the truth of that statement. Even Itami's eye had twitched as her words crossed his mind and he had heard them truly.

He was a soldier of Japan.

She was a Ranger of America.

The two had looked to each other for one moment of shared coherence: They were both essentially on loan, and it wasn't a good feeling to recognize.

"You travel rather light for legionnaires." Cyro regarded the two, pointing at Bannon's Enfield. "I've never seen a staff quite like that one before."

Bannon had smiled a small smirk as she ran her fingers over the old grain. "It's… a special weapon. Hopefully you won't see too much of them around."

Cyro hadn't been sure how to take that comment, but good man as he was he simply offered a skewer to the group instead, even if they declined.

"Of course not. Hadn't been on the wrong end of a weapon ever since I myself was a boy, and that was before the Empire solidified its patrol forces in the area."

Lelei had barely picked up the small iota of information: of Imperial patrols, she had been ever more wary as she looked up and down their flat land traveled paths.

"The Empire maintains patrols around here?"

Cyro had raised an eyebrow at the mage. "You should know, you're Imperials all the same, aren't you? Those _**Sicarii Frumentarius**_ I hear so much about hunting the last of the Bunny Warriors?"

Lelei's eyes flickered with improvisation. "Which is why we came from Italica. The Fromar Family there harbored a number of them."

Cyro's daughter had taken the skewer instead, biting into it, the skewer cracking as she had her way with the meat, the sound of chewing and fire presiding over it as Cyro nodded. "Terrible beasts, the Warrior Bunnies are I hear. They crucify their victims like savages… especially nomads like us that roam these lands- well, I'm sure you're well aware it."

"Of course." How easy Lelei had agreed. Was it a lie or was it the truth? Her poker face was too good.

"They look like _Sicarii_ , don't they father?" Cyro's daughter spoke up, Bannon feeling the scar, the state, of her left eye growing deeper. Even Itami had his ruggedness, his rifle strapped to his back.

He leaned over to Lelei's ear, speaking Japanese, "What's that word, Lelei? Sicarii?"

Bannon didn't need to ask that question though, courtesy of her temporary second in command. His workings as a police officer skirting the SoCal border had him take on a vocabulary that he had to work with everyday.

"It is… hard to translate to Japanese. It is, to us, a foreign word itself, taken on by the Empire long ago. "Betrayed handler" perhaps… "taker."" She struggled finding a word, but Bannon had an answer, drawn from a former police officer who was now part of her team.

 _ **"Hitman."**_

The two looked back at her.

"Hitman." She said quietly, voice grounded out. "It means hitman."

How personal a callsign assigned by General Andrade during the Ginza incident upon Emerson had become. It was curious to Bannon, but she had been Hitman 1-1 Actual all the same.

Itami had rubbed his chin without even considering the deeper implications. "Great, I look like a wolf, and an American now."

"What?"

"I mean- I mean one of you, Bannon." He stammered.

"How about me?" Lelei burst out, on impulse, to Cyro.

"How do you mean? Like a Sicarii?"

Lelei had asked from Itami, as if she appeared like an American, she curling her fingers back at her mouth as if physically taking back the awkward words.

Cyro didn't see too much in it, Bannon and Itami desperately trying to ignore what Lelei had really asked. The nomad, after a time of small talk, or what kind of names were Itami and Bannon, and of course, what had happened to Bannon's eye, had asked a rather strained question that the military part of them piqued at.

"Where are you going? Back out East? Into Elbe? Not many legionnaires usually head East ever since the Bunny Warrior Conquest."

Bannon and Itami shared a look as she went. "Really? Not many legionnaires come out this way?"

Cyro shook his head at Bannon's question. Asides from the birds, the distant other travelers heading in the opposite direction, and Patches, the plains were lifeless, lonely.

The nomad tore into one skewer, meat grinding between dirty teeth, only after he had offered half of it for his daughter. "I remember the olden times, as my grandfather told me. People like us were hunted down by raiders and scavengers for centuries until Emperor Molt's father enacted full protection for us as long as we assist any Imperial citizen out here in their travels." Cyro spoke of history related to him and his people; of an Empire in relation to himself.

"The Empire must've been helpful then?"

"As long as you weren't accused of being a raider, yes, out here in these fields."

"And if you were?" Itami raised his finger, resting on his knee.

Cyro had tossed an answer in his head for a moment before answering. "Well then you met the only purpose of the Imperial Legions at that time. Maybe a good half of the Empire's men used to patrol these lands when they weren't on the frontier. It certainly boosted, not only the lifestyle of us nomads, but of the trading economy. There was once a time where Traders had to hire mercenaries, or be mercenaries themselves, to even consider being out here."

"What did Emperor Molt call it again, father?"

"Civilization, my dear." he bit into his brown meat. "We are civilized now. Aren't we?"

"More civilized than bandits I reckon. We've dealt with our fair share." Itami's sarcasm wasn't detectable, but it was there.

"Fair share?" Several hundred to a person as far as RCT3 and Hitman were concerned. "Strange we haven't seen too many around, coming out here."

"They wouldn't be very good bandits if you saw them." Cyro lowly said. He thought the two soldiers were joking around. "Yeah, we just dealt with a handful about three days ago or something. Legionnaires are getting sloppy… I think you should go visit Hebron and tell him to buck up his legionnaires."

"Are any of our emancipations concentrated on also suppressing Bandit movements?" Itami asked in a whisper, not knowing if that was the case. He hadn't been on any emancipations personally, but the Marines and the JSDF had been pulling double time, searching for intel for American slaves and freeing slaves in general.

"My OpOrders from Blackburn don't make a reference to suppressing hostile raiders. We engage if prompted, but no directive." If the Rangers took orders from anyone, it had been from JSOC, and Blackburn had been there man. The folder he had slid their way regarding their overall operational parameters after their extraction from the capital had been spartan in contents.

"Interesting."

Cyro was a man of scars, his large, barrel like arms showing off its fair share of wear and fighting perhaps. "Bandits always come around… Legionnaires on the other hand? Not so much. I have to wonder how many will be around once they realize the Empire isn't around these parts anymore. Don't know why'd you spend time trying to stamp them out."

"Because they do active harm to people, obviously." Itami seemed a bit taken aback, but he had no say. He hadn't even been on a mission yet ever since he came back from the Capital. "If you can do something, you should."

"Says Mister "Don't do anything unless you need to."" Bannon ribbed Itami in her bored, broken tone.

"You know what I mean."

"I thought your Empire knew better, Frumentarii." Cyro finally took himself a bite of his meat, it cracking in his mouth with the char, juice running out the side of his mouth. It made Lelei hungry, but she wouldn't show it. "You can't simply kill out a profession. Better to befriend to stamp out… By the gods, I can't even imagine what it'd take to end raiders forever."

Itami had kept looking to Bannon, and she was getting annoyed with it. Sure, she was an American and part of the military. That didn't mean however she had born the weight of American Middle Eastern Intervention. She knew the lessons. Didn't mean she had made the history.

The American history that spanned nearly thirty years: her entire life.

Her entire life… what day was it today? She thought to herself. How old had she been? She forgot how she was between being a vagabond in the Mid-West to now.

"How did the Empire brefriend you nomads then? Way back when?" Bannon's voice bubbled.

"Asides from the more spiritual and ethnic nomadic groups, Emperor Kharak made a decree that all Nomads be called upon to assist the Empire's citizens abroad, whether it be river crossings or medical attention, as I said earlier. We were then treated with a sense of respect, backed by court order, of course." Cyro answered calmly. Frumentarii apparently didn't get much history, he reasoned.

"Did you do so before hand?" She asked further.

"I like to think that my ancestors did… I'm sure you'd also like to think your own ancestors did good for the world too, hm?"

Bannon's hands wandered to the dirt, feeling the brown between her fingers crumble. "My ancestors were a part of an Empire, yes. Not too proud of them though."

Itami had looked at Bannon again in another light. Kingdom Come's crew, they spoke of her, he overheard earlier… they called her something, a nationality, one he couldn't recognize. "Were they Rhodesian?"

Bannon paused for a second, taking the dirt into her palms and grinding. She didn't respond to him as she looked to the animals again that Cyro and his tribe used to travel… how far had they come?

"How's the Elbe Fiefdom?" She asked suddenly. Might as well have gotten intel.

"War footing, for some reason."

Lelei seemed concerned as she stirred. "How do you mean?"

"We made a larger sum of Denarii selling almost all of our excess bows and arrows to them. Their legionnaires seemed to have wanted them badly enough to buy on their own." Cyro had almost bragged, drinking form a clay cup.

The soldier part of the two adults had been piqued. "Was there anything in particular that would've had them do that?" Bannon asked.

"The Flame Dragon, I'm sure you've heard the rumor, it was spotted limping its way back down this way weeks ago, and no one has seen it since. I imagine that Elbe wants to prepare for it to come down on them sooner or later… that or they would go attack it first. Heard it was beat up pretty bad, actually."

The mention of Red had Bannon and Itami pique their interest. Their old friend had still be around, thankfully. They were only thankful for Chuka's sake however.

"Did you now?" Itami leaned in.

"From the other passing traders? Yeah. Also I saw one of the craters just a league or so back where it landed." Word from the immigrants into the Corridor had often spoke of the craters that the Flame Dragon had left during its painful voyage to the south east, flying away from RCT3 and its three accompanying Rangers. The craters themselves had yet to be verified, but they were a constant mention of those who had traveled from Elbe to the Corridor. "Many of them have become impromptu rest stops along this way actually."

"Mother was so scared at first, telling us we should've gone into a fortified city too, but father here didn't care." His daughter couldn't have been more than eight.

Cyro had ruffled his daughter's hair as he shook his head in good nature. "Last thing we heard from The Capital was that Pina Co Lada had been taking responsibility for dealing that damage to it. Rather curious. I never saw Pina as the working princess compared to Diabo or Zorzal." He realized who he was talking to before he raised his hands in respect.

"Oh, don't worry. We work for Pina, and therefore we have a certain understanding of what you mean."

"But I certainly mean no disrespect."

"Of course. But even then, we recognize that Princess Pina has a certain… youth to her that perhaps is not welcome in her position." Itami spoke like an older man. For all that he was at least he was a leader.

Cyro had breathed relieved as he found out he shared his concerns with some of Pina's agents apparently. "You must understand. Zorzal? I know little of how the man is personally, but he has a taste of expansionism that keeps these lands safe from raiders… It's almost as if that prince was born a little too late… Diabo on the other hand? His emphasis on taxes and exploration, as I hear, keep the Imperial Citizens fed and protected."

This surprised Itami a little. To hear of the two elder male princes of the Empire be spoken highly was odd to him. It was almost as if, he reasoned, if Americans came to Libya and heard that the citizens enjoyed Gadaffi's rule.

Then again the average Imperial citizen would never breath the same air as those princes.

Rory told them once what this was though, after so many of her citizens in the Corridor were more comfortable with her than the Marines or the JSDF: People, in bleaks times, always propped up their heroes.

"All Pina's done is just propaganda tours with her Rose Knights…"

There was obvious disdain in his voice; disgust.

"Is Pina not liked?" Itami had carefully asked. It had perhaps surprised them when Cyro, and his daughter, had nodded their heads almost immediately.

"She's hardly done anything for this Empire but live in her fantasy, if we're talking with frank, respectfully."

Bannon had nodded understandingly as Itami took it in. He was perplexed, for he didn't see Pina as a woman to be so negatively viewed. Then again, he knew her personally; Emerson, even more so. Though would Kay agree? That's what he had thought as he looked up at Cyro with a question on his lips.

"You assume us to be Frumentarii, Pina's even, and yet you talk about her like this… why?"

Cyro's hand had patted his daughter's head, reassuringly. "Honesty is the best policy. Especially when speaking to the secret police."

Lelei had nodded shamelessly, even as the two soldiers widened their eyes, being told who they were assumed to be: the men in black come to the home of dissidents to deal with them.

"Ah, we're the…" Itami struggled as Bannon bit her bottom lip, the left side of her face twitching with the itch that came. "We're more fighters than… inquisitors, Cyro."

The 75th Ranger Regiment would be honest in applying that, though Bannon knew why she and Itami had felt so uncomfortable with being called secret police. Rangers were complicit in capturing individuals in the dead of night, VIPs, HVTs, snuffing out embers of insurgency through blunt force in a land that didn't want them there. Asides from Walker, she was trained by other Ranger veterans, born from a War on Terror. They had done what they had to do in the name of American Peace, and so they were complicit in that secret war they waged.

The Japanese SOGs however could not escape it completely, not when Korea happened.

There was a term for SOGs like Itami, as said by the North Korean survivors of the war who had been liable to be opposed to the SOGs; officers, political commissars, holders of state secrets:

 _Jan-inhan salam._

A wolf.

It was why he had felt so disconcerted when Bannon had first called him that.

Every fiber of his being had told him that he didn't want to be that, that he was less than that. Though his resume told him otherwise: how his body reacted in a fight had let him know that there was no escaping what he had become.

"Why do you help us though? You don't know us. I bet you don't know anyone who dresses like us." Itami sounded pleading, as if he wanted to be singled out.

Cyro had motioned back to his family. "Have you seen people like us? Bannon?"

"I'm afraid not, Cyro."

"You seem new to this land, and, I have to tell you, there is no reason for us to not help you. I'm sure you would do the same if asked. But we need nothing right now." He had, in his gruff tongue, spoke out to the rest of his family in a gruff, foreign language. "Thank the gods that the skies are blue today."

Two younger men had appeared: a giant rug over one's shoulder and another bundle of wood in another. Bannon had identified the stack as Alder wood, rather smoky fuel for Barbecues she had known, working at a festival one day during her vagabond years.

She had wisely backed up as the stack of wood had been dumped into the fire, the younger man throwing one side of the rug to Cyro as they began.

Itami sniffled as he looked over at Bannon. "I doubt the Marines ever encountered people with suck kindness in Iraq." he said, speaking English. She didn't know why, but she felt offended.

"I don't know if Iraqis had much to offer us, Itami." Bannon said in a gruff acceptance. She knew of Rangers gone to Afghanistan and Iraq. They trained her.

" _The Americans never gave them a chance._ " Lelei said, almost under her breath, in her native tongue. Bannon had been the only one to pick it up as she tried her best to ignore her. Of course she would sympathize with them, she thought… from one nomad to another.

"Middle East?" Cyro had asked, opening and folding the rugs as, ever so gradually, the smoke stack rose up in a pattern like Morse code.

Itami had talked with a flow uninterrupted, so what came out of his mouth had been words he didn't know had come from. "It's where we've come from."

Cyro raised a large, bushy eyebrow. "Your homeland?"

Bannon shook her head once. "Just a place _we've_ been before."

* * *

The water's edge had been like a border between two worlds it seemed. There had been some appreciated irony as Bannon remembered where they had come from: across a gate of stone and a blackened darkness that would've been appropriate for such a transition.

Not a natural divide, stemming from the mountains that divided Italica and the Special Task Force from the Imperial Capital, but it was a divide that they felt in their bones: stopping them from completing what they were out there to do.

Soldiers such as them felt that barrier intimately. Objectives were life, and, in conventional warfare, the failure to complete them had often put others at hazard.

"Cigarette, please." Bannon had asked for, more sounding like a command.

Sometimes Itami had forgotten who had been the officer in Hitman, now more than ever as he handed over a stick. "How do you like smoking so far?"

Bannon had ignored as she stuck it between her lips and waited expectantly for Itami to light, which he did, only after lighting his own stick and standing before that river. Bannon's answer, if she had one, was that she didn't mind. Her mood wanted the smoke, the taste, to flow past her lips, into her nostrils, for her to blow out those clouds like the anger she had within her.

She said nothing however as she had her cigarette. Breathing in, breathing out, trying her best to feel her saliva mix with smoke in her mouth before blowing out. All the bad feelings, all the discontent, she hoped would be blown out with a drag.

"I never understood the allure of cigarettes." There was always one refugee with them. Bannon had forgotten when this had become an annoyance. Itami had forgotten when it had become a constant. Lelei held her staff as she did usually, drips of water being swayed by the resonant presence of her magic item, glancing at their cigarettes. "To poison one's body for enjoyment or relief is a paradigm to me."

Itami had tipped ash off of his own cigarette as he took his drag, looking across the river. The smoke that came from his mouth wasn't that different from the smoke signals Cyro had been sending up. "Sometimes to hurt one's self is a form a therapy. _Love is destructive_ , after all."

Bannon had laid a finger on her radio's catch, getting ready, wanting to spill the news as her mind took in the smoke and made her calm enough to speak. "That's that Christian anime, right?"

Her knowledge of manga and anime was lacking. She didn't have much interest anyway however.

"Huh?"

"Neon Genesis Evangelicals?"

"Evangelion, and yeah."

"Cam never shuts up about that thing, didn't think he'd be into it." Bannon's lack of understanding over Japanese had amused Itami.

"It's not Christian, Bannon, just, uh, a bit odd. Has a lot to do with God and self-realization though."

"Well, Cam knows better to believe in a god… so he tells me." She held down the button to her comm piece. "1-1 Actual here. Copy Hitman?"

Nutt responded as he sat on the hood of his Humvee, waving out across the way with his arms. "Copy you clear, Bannon."

"Be advised we have waterborne transport inbound to ferry the light victors over. I'd be dropping the load down a bit if I were you." Ramirez had turned around as soon as those words had been uttered, the Rangers getting to work almost immediately as the trunk was thrown open and the cargo of the Humvee gradually piled out.

"What's up sergeant?!" Lumaban had yelled as she sat on the hood of her Humvee, basically standing with their dick in their hands as they waited for whatever solution Itami pulled out of his ass to take effect, Kingdom Come had been beside her, and its crew also waiting, loitering on their vehicle after a rather greasy session of refueling, discarded tanks and towels baked in oil abound.

It'd been a while since they had to refuel their tank in the middle of the field, for whatever marginal good it could do.

Ramirez raised his hand to his mouth. "We've got waterborne transport! Lighten up the victors!"

"Say what?!" Dixie had yelled out from his dozing in the driver's hatch, his face smeared.

"We're going over the river! You have to lighten your vehicles if possible!" Ramirez yelled back as the Rangers got to it.

"Oh Hell's bells." His blackened towel flew out of the hatch, Yao reaching out and catching back as it fell downward on the hull. "Should've fuckin' told us that before we filled up the tank with gallons of fuckin' water weight."

Ramirez had shook his head at the dramatics as he held down his radio to respond. "Alright 1-1, Avenger, one step at a time. What's next?"

On the other side of the river the crusaders kept their stand, facing the opposite side of the river as if it had been a face.

"We get the Humvees over and then figure out what to do with Wilbur and the Abrams." Bannon responded coolly.

"Is making them turn back an option?" The Ranger to Bannon's side asked, pragmatically. If it couldn't get over, it couldn't get over.

"Affirmative."

"So we're not dead in the water then." Annel spit her gum on the ground, flicking the safety on her rifle, slinging it over her back as she held the sling like a suspender. There was no need for her guns to be out. Not now. "Wouldn't mind swimming though."

Itami had taken the diversion to light a cigarette, a river dividing him and his daughter. He had meant in earnest to actually to Annel, if only because she had agreed to come with them on this journey. How Emerson kept track of all his men he wouldn't know how, but then again there was a reason why he had been a captain and not him.

"Even over this?" he asked, not sure if he would believe her.

"Was a competition swimmer in college." She looked almost hungrily out at the calm waters of the river. It had been a fairly clean body of water for that matter. "I could do 1500 meters in about fifteen minutes."

Itami had remembered something about that time. One of his own instructors during SFG training had been a swimmer representing Japan during the 2020 Olympics, and his times had been close in that same sort of event.

"Those are world class times, Specialist Annel." He said as he took a drag from the smoke, impressed.

"Thank you, lieutenant." Her reply hadn't shown any sort of graciousness, though she did go on. "I could've gone pro. Hell, I could've been in the Aleppo Olympics last summer."

"Why not then?"

She had sniffled a bit as she took off her gloves. The gloves of the Rangers had been the sort operators like him had been used to seeing: Oakleys, Mechanix, the new Kruger-Reid gloves offensive gloves that had thin metal lining on their fingers that had been all the rage with Tier-1 Operators in ripping people's faces off, 5.11, among others.

 _Those_ type of brands.

Annel's gloves however, they'd been old. Mil-spec, sage green, Nomex flight gloves.

Masterson had often bragged he'd gone through a pair of gloves every month, but she wouldn't give these over for her life.

"Following after my father, sir."

She regarded her gloves with great care as she placed them into an admin pouch in her plate carrier.

"Heh, military family?"

"Negative. Father joined in 2022 with about a year or so left until he was too old to join. I was only eighteen when that happened."

Iran, Itami thought. "He must be proud his daughter became a Ranger then."

Bannon had winced in the background. She knew better about what had happened to Annel's father in Iran.

It was tradition to think of a father going to war to spare their sons and daughters the indignity of conflict and conquest. Though traditions can harm, and whatever had happened to Annel's father had been perhaps a more pure reason that the other pretext of invasion:

And that had been nuclear power and nuclear strength.

The Iranians had put up a fight that the world had not been prepared to witness, and indeed, a war weary America had been so used to the guerilla wars of Afghanistan and Iraq that an enemy able to provide conventional, modern tactics alongside the warfare of insurgents had yielded an uncomfortable amount of casualties during the invasion.

This so much so, following the subsequent North Korean break down, that armies throughout the world, from the grunts to the special forces units, had been reorganized and reevaluated. All because the warfare waged in the final days of the Forever War had let people like Annel's father die needlessly.

Who was Itami to say anything about dead fathers though?

"How about your Mom and Dad? Think they'd be proud of you?"

The question shot back from Annel paused Itami for a moment too long, leaving it unanswered as he blew his smoke and dealt with what answer he could give himself, of all people.

Bannon let a glob of spit from her mouth hit the ground as she stubbed out her barely used cigarette. She didn't like the conversation all that much better.

"They seem like nice people, Lelei." Bannon turned around, back to the nomads, the two looking at that little slice of normalcy in a way of life, unlike their own.

Lelei had barely nodded her head as she cradled her staff. "The people of the Empire tend to treat those nicer nomads with much more leniency. Those who are nice, survive out here."

"Doesn't bode well for some of us, does it sergeant?"

Bannon shook her head as, every minute or so, one of the nomads had stopped what they were doing and looked back at them. They had only stared back, slackening their forms, making sure they didn't look too scary. Annel had no such luck with her dark, curly hair, barely contained in ties and cuts. Her freckles seemed like dark stars across her laugh lines, the frown she wore one out of weariness. Her face was mean, from the noticeable gap between her two front teeth that had been seen when she grit her teeth, or the very fact her form was covered by the genderless uniform that painted her as a sharp, yet blobbish, utilitarian human being with hardly an inch of skin showing.

It was no wonder why Cyro mistook them as Legionnaires. They walked like warfighters.

That much even they, primitive peoples with hardly any contact with the Special Task Force, could attest to.

"We staying on this side?" Annel asked again, taking a knee, bringing her fingertips closer to those waters.

Itami had looked at one of Hitman's members more closely. The ones who followed Bannon, and Masterson, and Emerson, so closely. The ones who did their jobs without being curled into the intricacies of connections.

She looked like a soldier, and, Itami had thought grimly, meekly, had she really wanted to be one?

The last of the smoke that seemed to come from within Bannon had been breathed out as she nodded, looking to Itami. "Any time away from the kid is good for me."

"She might not like it." Itami answered her back.

"Doc's the best damn babysitter this side of paradise, hun'. He can handle her for a bit."

Lelei's thought through the words Bannon spoke as she reached her hand out toward Itami's radio. The man had given it up, but she had spoken, almost questionative. "But Chuka is not a baby."

"Needs to be treated like one still, for some damn reason." Annel griped. "I don't get those sick fucks who fall in that kind of love with their parents, you know?"

Chuka's closeness to her father was noted throughout the group, especially coming across to Itami, for as much ribbing as they would give him for it.

Itami continued his cigarette as Lelei began her radio call, looking away. "Must be a cultural thing…"

"Sergeant Wilbur, are you there?"

* * *

"Sergeant Wilbur, are you there?"

Wilbur was well to immediately respond to Lelei. She had help influence Madam Myui give him and the other tank commanders capes and knightships. "Aye. Need anything madam?"

"Just explanations, Wilbur."

"What about?" He asked, cheerfully. Yao had been using his own back to rest her on. She was decidedly quiet, all things considered. No need to complicate stuff more, she reasoned.

"I've observed that the M1 Abrams tank can "button" up; that it can seal all those inside of it safely within its confines. Is this not enough to have it traverse under water?"

Schmack blew a drag as he sat on his hatch, out toward the figures across the water. "Maybe when the damn M2 or some shit comes around."

Wilbur had ignored Schmack's mellow sarcasm as Dixie and Chains argued about something or another. They weren't happy about refueling a tank, only to be told to somehow make it lighter. He let the two bicker however. They usually had this discourse whenever something had arisen. Perhaps Chains had been the type of man to start shit just because Dixie had been a southern boy, but English paid no mind to it.

Didn't bother.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that ma'am. Abrams is a penultimate land vehicle. Emphasis on land."

"Then please, Sergeant Wilbur, explain to me as to why the M1 Abrams cannot operate under water."

Wilbur hadn't exactly wanted to explain rudimentary combustion engine operation to the girl, for he knew that she would've found that answer out some time down the road, however it was fair. She deserved some sort of answer as he looked back at the engine grill, still running warm. First time he had gotten inside the shell of an Abrams he had, despite all the training, the sessions, the lectures, on the merits and design of it, he had forgotten all of it.

All of the sudden he had remembered what many of the few survivors of the Battle of Italica had called Kingdom Come, its tusks gleaming with red:

"Imagine Kingdom Come as a beast; a living thing, ma'am." He patted his tank without thinking, as if it had been a pet.

Lelei paused, taking the thought within her mind and processing it. It wasn't logical. "But it is a machine."

Wilbur nodded. "Many of our best machines are based on living things, ma'am. And because of that, Kingdom Come breaths…"

"She breaths the same air we do, sips from the oil we've fought for, and can live and die." Chains had echoed from the front slope, talking to no one, expecting no audience. "Sometimes we make the mistake of thinking this thing feels, at all… fuck that shit nigga."

"What the fuck you talkin' 'bout?" Dixie raised his head out of the hatch, getting annoyed by the gunner's ranting.

"Feeling pity for a fuckin' war machine. What a joke."

"How you figure?" The southerner asked back to the man from South Central.

"I know when rightly something is alive or not. This fuckin' hunk of metal ain't living breathing."

One of Schmack's hands had come down on Chains' shoulders, reassuring him. "We're in the belly of the beast daily my dude, best not to make her angry."

"Unless she can eat us up and spit us out, _I don't give a shit_."

He removed his hand as he went back to his cigarette, his index finger matting down his moustache. " _ **Your ass**_ , not mine."

Elsewhere the Rangers and the escorting Marines did their own share of work to lighten the victors, Nutt having wielded one of the launchers brought with him over his shoulder, showing it off to the Marines.

"Carl Gustav. Not too different in application from the AT4, Swedes always make us Americans some good stuff." Nutt had patted down his launcher tube as they unloaded the weapons from the back of their Humvee. Several of the Marines had helped him out unload, many of them looking over the weapons that the Rangers had used here.

The airburst grenade launcher Kurokawa had used during the initial engagement with Red, the AA-12s and their drum mags, heavy squad support weapons that, if used against men, were always overkill in nature.

Against a dragon however, they were just right.

Poindexter had spun the M32 that Nutt had called his own, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

Nutt laughed as he pretended to sight up the caravan on the other side of the river, taking back the launcher. "Anything worth doing once, you gotta do right."

"Which is why you're heading out after Red, right?" The Marine elbowed him verbally.

Nutt rubbed his chin as he set down the launcher, shaking his head. "I wasn't part of the element that engaged him, but god knows I won't give him the time of day when I see that thing. Rangers get shit done." As said the man whose explosive chemistry was liable to award him a job as a chemistry teacher some day.

"Besides," Black had held an index finger and a thumb as a finger gun, pointing it across the way at the natives on the other side of the river. "If you're gonna spend the effort to shoot something, you shoot to kill."

One of the Marines snickered. "Which is why he still alive?"

Nutt had been fast enough to respond back. "Well, I assume it was Itami's team that held us back." He didn't mean that. Just it was always faster to offload the blame, especially when the failure only came in not killing the dragon enough. Not out of lack of trying by Emerson and Itami however.

"Japs always do, don't they?" One of the Marines said, letting down an ammo can he had assisted from lifting from the Humvee: it was Ramirez's own stash of 6.8 of the MCR.

"The JSDF," Ramirez walked over, relieving the Marine of his ammo. "Are fine soldiers. I saw that during Korea. RCT3, are also capable, they've trained with us accordingly." His MCR, in its black and tan dusted glory, had shined the same sheen Ramirez himself had. It spoke of a life lived.

"So it's just coincidence that the reason we've waited 'till now to hop on Red?"

Ramirez shook his head, his laugh lines drawing a frown on his face as he cleared a round in his MCR's chamber, sliding it into the ammo box. "Just poor decision making."

One of the Marines shook his head tiredly, his keffiyeh flowing with the movement as if it was his own hair. "We had the right decision knicked about a few weeks ago though. So it seems we're not the ones calling the shots here."

Another of the Marines turned away. "Like the fucking Japs don't trust us to make a decision."

"Oh yeah Marine?" Ramirez pressed as he continued unloading the Humvee. "Tell me, we're outside of the Marine command structure, what's the word about what Pierce would do if he was given full operation control?"

Nutt had off loaded the remaining launchers as he looked at Ramirez's face. It was almost as if someone had taken sandpaper to it.

Iran was responsible for that.

"You know that answer, Sergeant Ramirez. We all share something in common. We were there during Open Wind. We know how we have to work, for this place to not become like-"

Ramirez had heard it before.

"I get it. _**Blitzkrieg**_. Wipe them all out, one sweep, the younger generation shall see our ways. That's the only way it's worked so far asides from killing them all, making them as bad as Nazis."

You didn't have to be a chef to know when the meal was bad. You didn't have to have a star as his rank to know that these steps were not the ones they needed to be taking in this foreign land: the guise of an operation of justice used in the place of occupation.

What are we doing here? A question asked by every soldier that came to the Special Region, who had been to war before. The answer was not one they would want to hear. They would not allow it to be spoken, unless they allowed history to view them as the invading force entirely.

Rangers lead the way, and here they were, one of the most forward units, on purpose or not, of the Special Task Force.

One of the Marines muttered to one of his buddies. "You know we're not exactly forthcoming to the public regarding the state of the Empire. What they've done since we've arrived."

Poindexter had been that buddy, looking out toward the horizon, back toward Italica. He was an everyman, a Marine by choice. His life, he reasoned, could've been perhaps a great deal better if he just stayed in his trade shop, fixing up shoes with his father. Though that was a world that he did not know now, as a Marine who answered the call for his country under the simple fact of: "Iran threatens world peace. We have to invade."

Had he known the underscoring, the information that he on the ground had to deal with as he pointed rifles at an enemy that put the innocent in between him and they, perhaps he should've just stayed where he were and not become a Marine.

"Tell the world that there are confirmed slaves here? Do you know how many people would want the blood of the Empire on the table instead of negotiation papers?"

The Marine shrugged. "Maybe they deserve it."

The Ranger had been in the throne room when it all fell apart: when Noriko was dragged to their feet as if an offering by God to enact his will upon Imperials. He'd been operating for almost as long as his captain had been able to read and write, and he had been quick to judge, internally, that no man deserved to be cut down as they did, that night, by his hand.

He said nothing though. Nothing as the Humvee's suspension quietly eased off its load as the ammo and weapons were dumped to the side carefully.

Had the Empire truly deserved modern warfare in response to the discretions of a society centuries younger?

"Hey, Marines, go dump out your Humvee, it'll make the hop over much quicker."

"Yes sir." They all said, begrudgingly, shifting off and away.

Nutt had waited for them to be out of hearing range for him to let go of a breath he had held in. "I don't take it that you like Marines, Ramirez?" he asked, stacking the Carl Gustav rounds at his feet as Black handled the rest of the small arms.

The sergeant flared his lip for a second before shaking his head. "Just bad memories, Donald. Bad memories."

"Honestly," Black's Bostonian always tended to make his voice sound like as if he hadn't cared, but he did. "Iran wasn't that long ago George. It's not as if it was a lifetime ago like, say, I don't know, were you around for Gulf War 1?"

Ramirez appreciated the marksman trying to lighten the mood, but he had kept his silence as piece by piece, their loads were lightened for the sake of the water borne transport.

The Marines lent their hands, emptying the ammo and the cargo, brushing their shoulders quietly.

An old one had touched with a Marine fireteam leader.

For a moment, the two had held eye contact. Ramirez hadn't the figure of Harris, nor had he been as small as the younger males in Hitman, but he cut an imposing figure, inches away from Lumaban.

She however had her own figure to put off, sharing the same DNA as his own.

The two had frozen there, asides from the Humvee, bothering no one. Lumaban's brown eyes wandered to Ramirez's shoulder patches. 4th Ranger Battalion, Airborne, Special Forces, the US Flag… they were typical, most old and worn.

One above all, and he wore it now, stitched into his uniform's shoulder, was that of his old Battalion, worn out of respect.

An entire Ranger Battalion's operational capacity had to be sacrificed in Iran, leading the way with the Expeditionary Units and the spearhead forces from NATO. What they had met was a modern military a War on Terror could not prepare them for.

"You were there in Iran? _**1**_ _ **st**_ _ **Battalion**_?"

Ramirez had dusted the patch off, shrugging. "Guess I was."

One of only thirty Rangers to get to Tehran uninjured, and alive.

One of only ten to get through the liberation of the city.

The other Rangers wouldn't let Ramirez know outright, but he was something of a living legend among the 4th Ranger Battalion he was transferred into. The survivors always were the Ishamaels of tales far too great for any, but one, to live to tell.

It was as if Perla had been looking at a wonder of the world as Ramirez seemed to brush her off. But she reeled him back in, as much as he tried to ignore her. " _ **Why are you still in?**_ "

"Because I like to serve my country." He felt the dangle of his dog tags bump against his chest, beneath his uniform and kit. Same dog tags he had been given, so long ago, to a man nearly half his age. The words caught in his lungs like they were constipated, barely forced out. He didn't believe himself. "Why are you?"

There was no answer there that she could say, and he could tolerate, that would've made any of them happy. It was a question they faced every day, every hard moment in the service, as they stood on that foreign ground.

By the time the rafts showed up, Perla still couldn't find an answer.

* * *

"It's as if my eyes are…" Zyra, Cyro's daughter, had been at a loss for words regarding the usage and ability provided to her by the binoculars Annel had loaned her to look at the pair of platforms that had been drifting down toward them from up river. "Bigger?"

Annel had scrunched her lip as she shrugged. "Something like that." She motioned Bannon over as the woman readied her Enfield for good reason. "What's our ROE with this sergeant?"

The radio had also been a bit much to introduce the nomads too, but they had ignored their distress and curiosity. It got old real quick: exposing these people to modern marvels.

You can only show a primitive people the qualities of modern living for so long before you realize that the egos that are stroked were built on vanity. Even more so with modern warfare, and to go down that path would be bloody, for it has been.

On the other side of the river Black had slapped down his Mk17's bipod, prone against the flat grass before the sand, one cheek on the stock, the other being clamped down by his radio, awaiting orders as Rory stood on Kingdom Come, displaying herself to the world.

Through their magnified lenses they both saw four figures, two per raft. All of them adorned in the red and silver of the Imperial Legion, entirely oblivious to whom they were summoned by.

 _"Two water born craft. Four foot mobiles. Legionnaires. Imperial."_

 _"Copy."_

Bannon thumbed her radio. "Assassin 4-3, interrogative."

Perla responded quickly, sitting atop the ammo cans with the Marines, the Rangers all posted prone on the riverside, aiming down it, toward the assumed enemy. "4-3. Go ahead Hitman 1-1."

"You've been on the emancipation missions, 4-3, correct?"

"Wilco."

"Do Imperial soldiers generally attack on sight?"

Perla shook her head to herself. "Negative 1-1. The only instances of Imperial aggression post-Italica has been either instigated by Special Task Force actions or misunderstandings. They do not, if they ID, engage.

"Copy. 1-1 Out."

Black had been breathing steadily, ever so slowly the rafts coming closer. To him, those hundreds of yards were mere feet when viewed through his scope. With his detail, he could've painted a picture, like the dozens he had sketched in his own measurement book in boredom. From the dents in their plates, to the pores of their skin, Black had seen all as that black cross of a scope had fallen on one of the legionnaires (two up and one to the right, to adjust for the wind and distance).

"You want my opinion ma'am?" the Bostonian had rumbled, his cheek bone flush with his rifle's stock.

"Go ahead Black." Bannon responded, chambering a round in her Enfield.

"If they don't need to die, they don't need to. Way I see it. Saves on ammo."

Itami had been rather lax in light of the approaching foot mobiles. "Agreed." he concurred with Black, cocking his arms on his hip. "They're not the enemy."

Bannon had sat on the ground, cross legged, cradling her sniper off center, creating a platform for her Enfield to rest on as she peered into the sight with her one good eye. "Says who, Itami?"

"Says the situation." he said, unenthused by Bannon's persistence.

"Situation as I read it says we can take out waterborne infantry providing water passage for other Imperial troops."

"Do you really want me to tell you that those men have families and all that _**bullshit**_?"

Itami had been surprised at his own tenacity for English cursing. He'd also been surprised with how easy he had said it.

Bannon looked over with her damaged eye. "I don't consider that type of stuff bullshit." She looked down at her Enfield, her thumb passing over the bolt head in consideration. "You're right though."

Itami took that as a confirmation, hitting his own radio. "Avenger to all friendlies on this net, stand down unless engaged."

 _"Hard copy."_ Harris had answered for their side of the river, he himself prone, his M60 deployed, the Rangers all hiding themselves along the ground behind what sparse deviations in the flatness there was. Training had taken over for an ambush.

Ramirez had been a few feet over with Loke, rolling onto his back as he pressed down on his own radio. "2-2 to Bannon."

"Go ahead."

"I've got people skills. Request to make contact. Over."

Bannon had only been somewhat irked that he implied she didn't. "1-1. Go ahead. Out."

His QD sling had been detached from his gun as he had readied his M9 instead, Loke looking over from her own prone. "Mind if I tail?" she asked, concerned.

Ramirez had nodded. "Be my guest."

The two Rangers had stood, drawing the attention of the lead raft, Ramirez raising his hand slowly, approaching the shore, Loke tailing him as calmly as she could, rifle in hand.

The rafts had split up, a thick line of rope drawn between them. A lot of rope for that matter, enough to span the river's length as a supposed guide. One legionnaire had been a rower, the other swirling a stake and rope in one hand, tossing them toward the waiting Rangers on both side.

Ramirez had caught it with little trouble, pulling it taut before putting the stake into the ground with his heel. He remembered seeing something similar done during his trips to the Rio Grande to observe movements of illegals. He wasn't in ICE, but he brushed shoulders with them more than enough to go see the phenomenon first hand.

With a rope to guide the rafts, the two crafts had made it to the shore in little time. Just as Emerson and Itami had greeted Princess Pina and Italica so long ago.

"You nervous George?" Loke asked, a hand on the sergeant's shoulder, her weapon increasingly leveled down as the Legionnaires were more attentive to their rafts than the two of them or the party behind.

Ramirez had patted her hand on his shoulder as he stood, hands clasped, front and shown. "Why would I Talia? They seem friendly enough."

Her black hair floated in front of her face, brushing it back as she tried to bite back some bitterness. "… They just all look the same after a while, is all."

Ramirez tilted his head toward Loke, surprised. She was a corporal, at such a younger age in this unit. It was something to be noted. She didn't earn that rank the same way he had, through battle and longevity, but she had earned it for service in peace, never deployed past American borders. It saddened him to see her worn at all.

"You'll get used to it." The legionnaires had approached, no weapon drawn, no hostile intentions had. The only intention that they had given was that they wanted to talk, for they were summoned.

"Ave. Hail to Emperor Molt." The legionnaire in front of the pair had spoken as Ramirez did the same. A regular legionnaire to all indications, at least, compared to the follower: an older legionnaire down one leg and walking on a peg. Their skin had been bronzed similarly however, their armor uniform.

"Ave." Ramirez responded kindly, the Apostle of Death behind him in all her glory, standing atop Kingdom Come. The two legionnaires immediately bucked up, recognizing Rory. She did not speak, but she nodded toward them, acknowledging them.

Apostles were mystical, but they were a casual occurrence most of Hitman supposed. If they could be met, they could be adjusted into a mental routine of people who live here.

Ever so casually Ramirez removed his helmet and offered his arm, the Legionnaire returning the motion, arms clasped, hands at forearm grip.

"Hmph. I wasn't aware that Princess Pina had new troops in the area." The head legionnaire had asked, looking Ramirez up and down in his erratic, patterned clothing. "We heard a few months ago that Pina was deployed with her Knights to Italica… Never seen Rose Order knights this close."

The older, one legged Legionnaire had looked Loke up and down, her hair flowing by ponytail at her back. Once or twice the males in Hitman, before Ginza, had stated that Loke had still looked too much like a college frat girl (and all that entailed). As far as the legionnaires were concerned she looked like a woman in battle armor.

"Are you one of Pina's?" The old man pointed at Loke.

"She's conscious about her body and enjoys watching men make love." Loke assumed.

The hinted at closeness to Pina had been enough for the legionnaires.

The thought that only the Empire would dare have troops in Falmart was an ignorant arrogance that played in the Special Task Force's favor.

The other, one legged legionnaire had nodded, collaborating, leaning on the wooden rails of the raft, big enough for a Humvee, thankfully. "Tons of settlers have been moving in Italica, so I can only assume that Pina and General Hebron's forces dealt with the threat there… Is that correct?"

Ramirez had chuckled to himself as he uncomfortably, with a sleight of hand, unbuckled his holster. Just in case he reasoned. "No news is good news, legionnaire. And Madam Myui and Princess Co Lada have been able to take situation of Italica and her holdings well."

Not the whole truth, but he wasn't lying. That much the legionnaires could tell as Ramirez held his chin level, his mouth forming a thing line as he raised an eyebrow.

Thankfully news of the capital couldn't get to the outlying legionnaires that still hadn't been pacified by the Special Task Force. Thankfully they didn't know that, currently, Pina had been unconscious, having been brought down from her cross with the surviving Rose Order knights and hidden within Akusho.

They didn't know they were talking to an enemy so great they had made a plan to combat the Apostle before them, and thought to themselves, "Yes. This will work."

"You're _**Frumentarii**_ , aren't you? I didn't know that Pina had those among her ranks."

Ramirez heard that word in whispers, from Lelei and Pina once. Speaking of shadows and the only people they could think of that could've equaled them.

A legionnaire and nomads had pinned that phrase on them though, and, they couldn't tell, but it was in the way they walked and carried themselves. As if they were above it all. As if they'd dealt with greater.

"Why would I ever answer that, legionnaire?"

The legionnaire clenched his jaw. "Right. I suppose we'll get started on getting these…" he looked over at the alien vehicles behind them with their tense occupiers, holding onto black trumpets. "Carts?"

"Yes, carts." Ramirez nodded. "Save the large one though."

"What kind of carts are they? What are they powered by? Where are your animals?"

Ramirez crossed his arms as he tilted is head. "Magic. If that is an acceptable answer."

The secondary legionnaire elbowed his compatriot, motioning to the fact the Apostle of Death had been on the hood of one of them. "If Rory is involved, I'd be willing to take it."

Before they had gotten underway, the Legionnaires posing no threat, Ramirez had gone into his pocket.

Wilbur had a great portion of gold still with him from the family that had donated their treasure to him for better housing. He never asked the nature of that family and how they truly did get a hand on that treasure, however he still had some share. Share enough that he had given some to the Rangers for storing the treasure with them at the Fromar Keep.

A bag of coin was handed over. "We're going to be doing multiple trips so, uh, for your troubles, legionnaire."

It was better currency for them to use than bullet casings.

The one-legged legionnaire had grabbed a handful of gold eagerly from the bag as the legionnaire who had been given the bag uneasily pocketed it. His eyes were thankful, unable to form words. "You know, usually taxes from Italica and Elbe keep me and my family fed. Italica hasn't been coughing their share recently, so, uh, thanks."

"You got family around, son?" Ramirez asked, a family man himself.

"Yes. Me and three other families own a farm just about, two-three days travel away, north of Italica. We have maybe, thirty slaves and, well, you try feeding that many pigs when half your pay doesn't come in… It's fine though, last I heard one of the slaves was about to give birth and well, always good for new ones to be born in free of charge."

Ramirez tightened his jaw as the legionnaire mentioned this all so casually. A part of himself told him that he couldn't judge. This was a different time and culture.

Reality told him that he would judge; that he would be made to judge by order, and his judgement would not see this man in a favorable outcome.

The one-legged legionnaire had started off, walking toward the rest of the convoy. "Hey, I'd rather be paid doing this than being foot infantry? Can you imagine fighting off this enemy that was there at Arnus? I know I had my time during the Bunny Conquests."

It only dawned on Ramirez later, as the first Humvee was creakily put onto the raft, that he could've _very much_ imagined what it was like fighting an enemy much like themselves.

It'd been a long time since he'd been shot at, either by gang banger or Iranian.

He missed it.

* * *

The Frumentarii that the legionnaires assumed that the Rangers, Marines, and Itami to be, were not very talkative. Even across worlds the image of special forces was that of quiet men and women doing what was necessary. Words had no meaning to them, and words were not exchanged as they made the ten or so trips back and forth ferrying over the Humvees and the weapons separately, before the mass of the convoy made its way over on the two rafts: both of them held straight by lines that crossed over the river, guiding them smoothly.

What little that the Rangers and Marines did talk about was what the Humvees were capable of, how they were capable of movement and firepower which was too dangerous for regular legions to have.

There was little concern about the legionnaires though. They weren't curious, and their eyes had only wandered on their weapons for only so long before disregarding them, not understanding what they were.

"Blessed by my powers, of course." Rory had been more than willing to proclaim any of the Special Task Force's powers onto herself, shooting a coy look at the gunner of the Ranger Humvee. Black had still been there, not so believing of what power she had over the M2 Browning that they had mounted, but in the presence of Imperials he let her have her way.

"You know I'm wondering why the JSDF gave you that gun, any gun, at all, Rory." Loke had questioned the JSDF via Mercury. The Nambu revolver was still there, its usage by her not understated at all. She did not use it as her fighting weapon, she used it to execute.

Her fighting weapon had been the one she used for nearly a millennia, and it towered over them all still, leaning on the Humvee, casting its silhouette over Black.

Being the top "sheriff" of the MP force, it was no surprise the revolver had come out in its black and maroon sheen with her right hand, cross drawn from a holster clamped to her left thigh, and began to move around in a way she was taught.

Masterson hadn't been shy of showing off his particular, gunslinging talents. Training the MPs, and more specifically, Rory, had been an extension of that showmanship. So Rory spun her revolver in a way that, if Bannon had seen, she would've seen her Masterson's calling card: an unbelievable, entirely extra talent that did not belong in their high speed, low drag environment.

"After a few centuries of spinning this," she tapped the handle of her halberd, weightless whenever near her (as was why the damn raft wasn't sinking). "This is no problem."

"Spinning a gun offers no tactical advantage, Mercury."

"No more tactical advantage than that scarf of yours does." She winked back at Loke and her neck-worn hijab. The point woman had sniffled as she tried to ignore her quip.

The one legged Legionnaire, holding the line steady, had seemed old enough to know some history. "Ohohoh. The last time Rory rode with Imperial Legionnaires was when Prince Zorzal went to the Bunny Grasslands."

She fumbled her revolver as the legionnaire spoke, it clattering to the ground worsening the attention she didn't want to draw to herself.

She was the only refugee on that ride over, and the Rangers had all gazed at her in confusion. She was there?

Nutt had been a modest observer of Imperial history. The teacher among them all had to, he reasoned, just so Emerson wouldn't have all the academic fun. "I suppose you were one of the Apostles which gave the Empire divine credence to invade, Rory? Makes sense, God of Death and War and all."

Rory looked at Nutt in such a way that Emerson had long gotten used to. It was a look of surprise, impressment. "The reasons to invade one country here, aren't so different in your world, Ranger."

Nutt thumbed his beard, looking down at his notes, tucked into one of his M4 magazine pouches. "Hell, I'll give you credit for actually being present. I know God typically ain't with us whenever we invade."

"You view me comfortably as a god, Corporal Nutt." Gradually, Hitman had looked at Rory differently, less as a person at that moment, but a catalyst. Did she like being around for history? Were they making history because of her being there?

Were the Marines right to be on their guard around her?

Perhaps Legionnaires, apparently, on their way east with Zorzal, had suffered the same question.

"Not my god, ma'am, respectfully."

Rory had put her tongue between her teeth for a moment, as if hissing. "What do the locals call your kind, Nutt? _**Kike**_?"

Nutt had spit some fluid from the back of his throat into the water. "Say something like that again, Mercury. _I dare you._ "

"Donald." Ramirez had said once, tempering the grenadier, amusing Rory.

The slur had made those who understood it wince, and the point woman hurriedly drew the discussion away.

"What do you think of the Bunny Warriors, Mercury?" Loke asked, leveled, one eyebrow up, her back turned on her as she looked out against the waters.

She had holstered her revolver as she remembered the dreams in her mind. She dreamt of Hitman, yes, dreamt of RCT3. Those dreams however had been her own cardinal desires: not of love or lust, but of war. She dreamed of war with these men and women, keeping herself knowledgeable of where each of those Rangers and soldiers were in relation to her at that very moment.

If the Marines had a security team tailing her at all time back at Arnus, then Hitman assumed that role here, and if they fought, she'd be ready.

Problem was, so were they.

"Raiders of the worst kind. _**Heathens**_ that deserved to be civilized at some point."

She was nearly a millennia old, and to hear prejudice from her was to hear it spoken like fact.

"How can you say that Rory?" Black asked as the legionnaires nodded in agreement.

"Over five hundred years ago the Bunny Warriors were given a choice to join the Empire as their premier _Ranger_ \- I mean, scouts." she stopped herself as she realized she was speaking English, using the term that Hitman was so personally identified with. "Nearly three hundred tribes and peoples throughout the Empire were given this opportunity by the growing Sadera Kingdom, and I sided with them, thinking of making my job easier in keeping Emroy's words consistent across a territory."

"The Bunny Warriors refused?"

"They killed the messengers. _**Hoisted them on a cross**_ like they do all their dishonored warriors and prey." She said, curling her lip, raising her nose, annoyed, as if it happened yesterday.

"What's your problem with them then?" Black asked on, the .45 on his hip burning a hole in his flesh. He wanted to keep it out and ready near her now for some unsayable reason that the Marines had all been independently briefed on.

Her black dress flowed in the wind, the blackest fabric that any of them had seen: darker than the cosmos above, emptier than the air at that moment. "Each kill, they wanted for their own. Their kills on the hunt were dedicated to them and them alone, no tribute to Emroy, no acknowledgement. _**That wasn't right."**_

The low chuckle, a dare. Black had released the mag from his SCAR DMR, seating the rounds, placing it back in. "And what do you think of my boy Nutt here being a Kike, Rory?"

 _ **"You're still in my service here, it is tolerable."**_

Ortiz had been quiet during this all, feeling out of his place to interject with the lord of death, but what he did do, hearing those words and the name of his captain, looked out back to Arnus, and wondered what the rest of Hitman had been doing.

* * *

Ramirez had desperately wanted to talk to Bannon, but she had an armful of a problem: that being Chuka as they embraced.

"Were you always so clingy, dear?" Bannon's dull tone had survived, some overlap between Nara and her had existed.

"You were the one who always held onto me, mother. I blame you."

Bannon had mouthed 'of course I did' as she glanced to Ramirez and Itami. It was a rather wife-like glare at that, saying to "get her off of me".

Itami's arm had slid between Bannon's mid-section and Chuka's, dragging their daughter away. "And how about for your dear old father, Chuka?"

Chuka stuck out her tongue as she was dragged away, speaking about a lunch they didn't have yet.

When she had gone away business was as usual. "Ma'am." Ramirez addressed, she nodding. In his hand had been his M9A3, a suppressor being twisted on. "Standard operating procedure behind enemy lines is to dismantle hostile logistics route if possible. Terminate these four?"

The four legionnaires had awaited on the shore of the river, wanting to be dismissed, but knowing they left behind the large abomination known as Kingdom Come.

"Are they hostile, sergeant?"

The vet shrugged. "Not immediately, but if we told them who we were I'm sure they'd draw the daggers."

She rubbed her left eye as she leaned to peer over Ramirez at them. Behind her the Rangers and Marines got acquainted with Cyro's family, making small talk, offering help and wisdom in ways they could.

"Well don't tell them who we are."

"Your call then." He flipped the safety on his Beretta, holstering, throwing his gaze over further, to Kingdom Come.

"Besides, they're calling us something else anyway." She said under her breath, not sure if she wanted Ramirez to hear anyway. He did though, tilting his head. " _ **Sicarii.**_ "

There was visible alarm in the former cop's eyes, however he didn't vocalize. Coincidences were in good supply these days so he wasn't surprised.

On this side the Rangers and Marines that came over had been reloading the Humvees, assuming security despite the friendliness of Cyro's pack.

Her eye's agitation continued, but before she had gone at it she called out. "Lelei."

She was by her side again at a moment, staff like a walking stick. "Yes Bannon?"

That staff was gestured at by Bannon, her hand reaching out, Lelei surrendering it as the Ranger felt the wood beneath it: feeling like marble. She only thought she felt the magical aura she was so deaf to. "When we first saw you, Red was chasing you down in that cart of yours. Y'all were flying, remember? That because of this thing?"

Lelei shook her head as, with a force beyond Bannon, it was pulled from her hands back to the mages. Ramirez hadn't been used to it, at all, but all he did was hold his breath and let it happen as he saw the more peculiar aspects of this Special Region take hold. "I am naturally gifted, but my staff magnifies my powers."

"Is it magnified enough to carry our tank over this river?" She gripped her staff harder as she considered. The twinkle in her eye as she looked across the water at the Abrams, the twitch; she was annoyed.

"I don't believe so. At least not for an appropriate distance."

Ramirez tapped his fingers against his arm. "Could call one of the Storks or Chinooks from Arnus."

"And deal with whatever communique that GHQ sends our way from Camp Omega?" Bannon shook her head almost immediately. "Too much trouble for something we don't need."

"I think bringing a tank to a dragon fight might be totally warranted." The former policeman said in all frankness. He knew better than to just go barging into crack houses with nothing but him, his Glock, and his partner.

"Red is a soft target George." Explained the woman who'd personally unloaded an M72 LAW into it.

"I think it'd help some of the men sleep better."

"We can sleep when we're dead."

That was how they talked. With all the grit and sarcasm that they allowed from their weary minds, fed up with problems that they never wanted to deal with.

The older sergeant stretched his arms to the sky, the creaks in his back cracking, doing their best to dissipate underneath his gear.

"What I'd give for that little resort treat the rest of you went to during our break at Japan a while back." Ramirez had thought it a throw away comment.

Bannon, in her remembering of those hot spring waters, remembered what Lelei did, practicing her skills during that bath.

"Lelei," she started, curiosity in her voice. "Do you know that thing you do, with water? Back at the resort you formed water into a ball in your hand and were able to float it around."

Lelei looked up at Bannon, wide eye'd, drawing them forward to the bank. With her right hand she reached out to the water, a sphere forming beneath the surface, rising up like a ball.

Ramirez had tapped his foot anxiously. "When I was a god damn cop they had me trying LSD. Seem's damn familiar, what I'm seeing." Magic was still something to see, especially at such an intimate distance. In a world where magic is viewed as pure trickery, to see it performed out of honest art and practice was disorienting.

Across the way Wilbur had stood on his tank and peered through his binoculars at the sight. The ball was of considerable size, and Chains had been losing his mind seeing magic happen.

"Could I ever learn this stuff, Leels?"

"Perhaps."

The ball had dropped back down in a splash, all witnessing waiting for a point to be made.

Bannon made it. "Can you do the same in reverse? Isolate air inside of a bubble and force it through water?"

The mental calculations went through her mind. "It would be much easier to attempt than levitating the Abrams across the river."

"But you could fail?" Ramirez had reminded Bannon and the mage. "If you fail, I don't think Wilbur would enjoy being inside of a tank at a bottom of a river… that and answering for a lost Abrams."

Bannon pursed her lips. "There's no shame in failure."

"But at the cost of an Abrams?" He'd seen Abrams blown up before by Russian ATGMs in Iran and North Korea. To see them blown up, not by fluke or negligence, but by honest to god hostile maneuvers employed to actually KILL an Abrams… Every iron carcass was a testament to a tarnished image he had been witness to.

She nodded. "We've got enough man mobile heavy ordnance. Wilbur and the Marines are just along, in my opinion, to feel good about themselves. Besides…" She remembered her training and the dangers of Walker's lessons: the physical harm associated with his… methods. "There's a risk in every action. To not act because of fear of those risks is to render one's self ineffective."

Ramirez kicked the dirt. "Well, this is a bit different from bound and cover, you know that, right?"

"Ranger creed, Sergeant Ramirez, gotta pull the mission through, even though we may be the last at the end of it."

Ramirez had smirked, grunting in some self-amusement. "Rangers are a tactical option, a tool, Sergeant Bannon, not a policy unto itself. We can't make those kinds of missions for ourselves."

Lelei remembered why she had learned English now: it was more revealing than learning Japanese to the same measure. To hear Ramirez speak was a lesson in experience that betrayed what she knew about the rest of the Rangers. "Tools, is that what you think you are, Sergeant Ramirez?"

"It's what helps _**me**_ sleep at night, that's for sure."

"To know that someone holds you, controls you… to relieve yourself of the control…" She spoke aloud, trying to find reasons as to why Ramirez thought as he did. "Responsibility?"

Ramirez had turned away before she could deliver those words to him, leaving Bannon and her protégé.

Silently, the looked out across the water, at the tank and its waiting crew.

The Ranger turned her head down. "Can you do it?"

"Rangers lead the way. That is part of that Ranger Creed, Lisa." She learned of the Rangers through her computer, back at Italica. "It means that when an option to success is presented, it is done. No matter the cost, and deliberation would only mean to forestall victory."

"It's dangerous though."

Lelei's eyes flickered, looking up at her. "To you, being in this Special Region is dangerous. And yet you are here. Why are you here?"

Orders. "Because I was told that I should be here."

"As you are telling me if I can do what needs to be done. And I will."

"Can anyone with magical abilities help you though?"

The mage nodded. "Rory has little natural talent in the arcane. Though she is more sensitive to magic than most. Yao? She would be helpful, but she is not trained. She would funnel what she can of her own prowess to my spell." Lelei paused, Bannon tilting her head, waiting for her to speak of the remaining elf.

"And…?"

"Do you wish, as a mother, to subject your daughter to the harm that might come toward me?" Lelei spoke knowingly of who she was talking to.

"I'm not her mother." Bannon said. Every time she was reminded, she was insulted, but yet it was true to Chuka.

"But to her, you are."

A puff of air had come from Bannon's lips. "You know, my mother pushed me when I was young. Signed me up for horseback riding lessons, piano lessons, math tutoring… all that good, fun stuff that she convinced me sucked at the time, but would help me in life later."

"Is that what mothers are supposed to do then? Push their children? Or protect them, as Itami has told me?" They threw a glance at the man in question, attending with his daughter, introducing her to Cyro and his family. They looked so natural in their roles, as if Itami had really been a father and this was a greet and meet with another family.

Chuka had bowed, in her imitation of Japanese formalities, Cyro looking over to Bannon in some confused fashion as Chuka introduced bother her and Itami as her mother and father.

"Ahhh, _the hell would I know_ what a good parent should do. My parents disowned me, Cam hasn't talked to his in twenty years, and Kay, the only one of us with a proper Mom and Dad pair is out god knows where with the other half of Hitman."

Lelei pursed her lips, gazing at Itami in all the wonder she could muster. "He is a good father. Itami." she stated as fact. "He would be."

Bannon shrugged. At the corner of Lelei's eyes she had seen Bannon take some offense to that. To her, it felt like she was judged. "He's lucky. He might be a soldier, but, he never wanted to be, at his very core he isn't one of us… A bullet goes more than skin deep though, and I know whenever I shoot, I shoot at what's at the surface level."

"Then what are you Bannon? At your core?"

Existential questions. Such blunt and simple questions came to this in the end. Bannon despised such discourse. She enjoyed numbers more than this kind of theory. Her degree had dealt with numbers almost exclusively however. Perhaps that was why she never saw the bubble coming; only the pop.

"I'm a soldier. That's what's at my core now."

"Is that what you believe?" The mage asked, not quite believing.

"I've been in the military for nearly half a decade Lelei, and I've been trained as a Ranger for four of those years. And before that I had no life when I was divorced."

"But is that what you believe?" She wanted to hear her say it, and so she did. "Do you not find irony in this, Bannon?"

"Irony in what?" Her voice ground out again in its ugly way.

"You've become the roles you have, even if you weren't that originally, what makes being a mother so detestable to you? This is not the first time you've changed who you are." She looked at Bannon, her face momentarily twitching in one direction, her breathing sharp, but quiet. "Stop trying to argue with yourself Bannon. Truth is derived from reality, and the reality is that you share no blood obligation with Chuka Luna Marceau. That does not mean however you cannot deny your role to her. "

There was no words for Bannon to say. It'd all be filler, left eye burning as she dipped her palms into the water before he and cupped it over her milky circlet.

"Why did you opt to have your eye be this way?" Lelei had observed, Bannon trying to blink cooling fluid into it. No vision today out of it, though she still saw what she wanted: looking into the reflection of the water and seeing how horrifying she looked with what had been done to her.

"I would've been taken out of the field if they scrapped what was left out of my socket… No, I couldn't leave this unit like that. So now I'm just waiting for the replacement to get here."

Bannon felt a tug on the sling that held her Lee Enfield, dragging her down to Lelei's eye level. All of the sudden her own hand had been replaced by the mages, and the feeling of numbness had passed from her palm into over and through her eye.

"Corporal Loke lets me do this to her stomach wound on occasion. This should suffice for the moment."

It had been as if someone had entirely sucked the warmth out of the left side of her face, but after that fleeting feeling she felt nothing as she twitched her face, trying to feel it.

She felt nothing though, not even as she used her tongue to poke the inside of her left cheek. It worried her, but she appreciated it nonetheless, running her fingers through Lelei's dome headed hair. "Thank you hun'."

"Magic can afford you many solutions, Lisa."

"Yeah, well, I don't think Cameron would forgive me if I ever took part in the dark arts. He just that sorta man… Hell, I'm that sorta woman. Most of us who live on that half of the US know better than to believe."

"Why does it matter if Sergeant Masterson has a comment on this phenomena?" Her fingers were coated in that nameless blue aura, fettering out.

The Ranger smiled at Lelei, no answer given, but something told instead. There wasn't anything she could say that would really matter at that point. She waved her hand at Itami, getting his attention.

"Honey! Sweetie! We're going over the river again! Get Doc too!"

* * *

All the Rangers had been ferried over, ATVs, bikes, and Humvee. Perla had been waiting, performing her duty to escort Kingdom Come as diligently as she could with her fireteam and Humvee. Chances were if Kingdom Come wasn't going to cross, they'd escort her back to Arnus.

She had greeted Itami with some expectant aggravation. "We got a plan to go? Cause otherwise I'd like to be moving before sundown, either toward Red or back toward Camp Kilgore."

"Nara's got a plan." She appeared next to him as they got off the float, nodding.

"Very cute name, all things considered." Perla confided. Even all these years after the US Armed Forces became integrated in the fashion they were now, it was still odd to Bannon to hear Perla speak with the tone of a Marine over such mundane things. "Mind telling me?"

"Yeah, just, uh, Rory?" The Apostle perked her head up, conversing with one of the legionnaires on the transportation. "Can you uh, escort my daughter and Lelei over to Wilbur? Me and Hodor have got some plans to say."

Rory curled a finger to her chin, one eyebrow raised mockingly, but no less sinister than how she was usually. "Does this plan not include me? Nara? Hodor?"

"We'll wait and see, Oracle." Bannon used that term for her. Just as she had to use a title now, Bannon cast it back upon her.

The ride over was in silence, but Itami expected this, children in earshot. _"You don't talk to me much, mother. Are you sick or something?"_ Chuka had observed.

 _"Just tired, sweetheart."_

It was a boldfaced lie but it was buried enough under others that it was in good company. At least she tried to make up for it by holding her daughter for the way over. The Imperials hadn't quite understood what they were seeing, but they had been given gold and the implication that these people had a license to kill beyond their jurisdiction. The only thing they gave to them was the eyebrow raise between their helmets.

All things considered, under most circumstances, Bannon might've been under the pretense to put a bullet between those eyebrows.

Still, if she had a plan, he at least had the right to know as ranking officer. She didn't try to hide it, not when Doc had started out, Rory taking Chuka by the hand and walking away. Lelei didn't need a hand held as she made her way over, intent on taking a closer look at Kingdom Come in preparation of what they were going to do.

"So what is this plan you've got Bannon? It's no small feat to ferry several tons across a river with only wood floats."

"Not wood floats we're thinking about Itami, more uh, going through the river. Underneath it."

Perla did a double take over her shoulder, confused, but not questioning. If she had investigated all methods of success in her military career she doubt she would've gotten any sleep at all.

Itami offered his own raised eyebrow, rolling up his sleeves. "Wilbur going to agree with this? Also, how?"

"I'm sure he will. Not like he's got much of a choice." Bannon spoke English coldly, Itami realized. It wasn't rude, just expectant of people.

"I guess Lelei's got something to do with this?" There were patterns in this world: solutions to problems that never happened being solved by options only available in this world.

Feed pears to the infected to cure them from being undead.

Train knights underneath the Empire's nose in order to make them understand what it means to be American, to be free, to be in the democratic right.

Deal with a dragon with high explosives to quit exerting itself on a refugee movement.

Feed them fried food and brand names to make them realize the errors of their plebian ways.

Use a mage to transport a tank over a river too far.

Bannon nodded twice, cupping her chin. "Air bubble. She can make one big enough, and long enough, for Kingdom Come to roll across the bottom and out the other side."

"Oh… a bit like what the Germans thought to do to bring tanks over the English Channel during the Second World War?"

Doc wasn't the best swimmer, but he hadn't feared much in a long time. He'd known fear before and a quick dip underwater was hardly his concern. "Ahh, about. You see that's quite a bit of a drive for an Abrams, down there. Ten minutes at least, and even then we don't know what it's like down there. And I know Lelei's exceptionally gifted in her arts, but I don't trust her entirely to keep up an air bubble for that long."

Itami had thought something was lost in his internal translation, or that Doc hadn't speaking good enough Japanese, but he looked at the man as if he was lost. "If you don't trust her, then why are we doing this?"

Bannon's cupping of her chin went to her mouth, avoiding Itami's gaze.

"There's a hypothesis I'd like to test… but it, uh, well." Doc had been toying with his hands, looking down at the hard case full of anesthesia meant for Chuka in case the worst happened. "There's a saying in Greek that might hit home for these people harder than me. It's an oath that I have to take, practicing medicine and all. It's a good oath, a true oath it's just that."

Bannon had stared at that same sunset. "Out with it Doc."

"When Chuka was out on the town alone before we went out on this op, whenever her cognitive mind conflicted with itself over the fraternal problem, her magic abilities were intensified. Whenever she was out on the boneyard, punching the snot out of dragon shaped rocks, around her she would be able to lift left over catapult ammunition and wreckage about as heavy as the Abrams up into the air… which in short means that whenever her emotions get tangled up she can magnify, obviously, some of her magic properties and perhaps act as a force multiplier to-"

Itami had gotten to Doc's hypothesis quicker than he had been able to say. " _ **No.**_ " he said once, fast and unkindly. "No. Not in my life, Doc."

Perla's eyes had widened with that implication. "You're going to be mindfucking Chuka?"

Doc and Bannon tightened their jaws. Put like that, it sounded harsh. Put it anyway and it was. Doc had nodded at the Marine. "For the sake of having a backup plan should Lelei fail. Not outright of course."

Bannon tightened her crossed arms across her chest as she looked over to Hitman's medic, rubbing the back of his bald head as he breathed out, anxiously. "Not in your life? Eh?"

"I'm not gonna put her through anymore danger if I can risk it. Especially not that, of all things. She's gonna be facing a lot of truth when we get to Schwarz and I want to delay that as much as I can." There was disbelief in his voice, the gesture of his arms and hands, out and flat.

The Ranger lead had shook her head, frustration bubbling. "You joined a fucking military-"

 _ **"A self defense force."**_ he interrupted.

Itami didn't know why he had corrected Bannon so fast, but he did, and even the doctor was taken aback before he reeled himself back in and dug his nails into his palms. Bannon continued, tripping over her words before finding stead. "You joined the military, _**Lieutenant**_ Itami. Did you not think that, in all your life, in the world we came from, that you would not put people in harm's way intentionally? Did you not think you'd kill?"

"Well I didn't join the JSDF to kill, Bannon."

Doc chimed up, head raised, eyes looking down at him, empty. "I didn't become a medical professional so I could tell mothers that their children had weeks to live, but hey, it's a part of the job, and right now? You have to do yours, whatever that entails."

"Is that your justification for harming a child's wellbeing? _**Just doing your job?**_ "

"Am I needed for this?" Perla's voice had risen. It was if she was viewing torture, her feet wanting flight from that conversation ASAP.

To kill children after all is not a pleasant experience. After all those years, Lumaban had so desperately tried to make herself think it was a mistake about what she had done in Iran. There was that conflict in her mind that Christ could not extinguish, and here this party clawed at her scabbed wounds.

"Get your men over the river, Sergeant Lumaban." Bannon had ordered.

And so the sane woman had turned away.

Itami felt an almost pincer like feeling on his arm, felt between the sleeve of his uniform and the rough texture of gloves. Doc's hand had held him as he looked into his eyes. " _ **This life is not painless**_ , lieutenant. We chose the jobs that we do because _**we are willing to sustain that pain**_. The pain in which we inflict is _**not out of malice**_ , Itami. _**It is out of mercy.**_ "

Sacrifice was how Itami described Doc.

Bannon had been a consummate professional.

Masterson, someone who enjoyed their job.

Emerson? Perseverance.

And so Itami faced a man who had sacrificed many things to do good, and he was telling him that, in order to do good, he had to do wrong.

His mouth was dry as he looked over to Chuka, being entertained by Wilbur and Perla together, Perla trying to hit high notes with her in hymns. "Do you know what kind of pain I anticipated to give when I got this job, Doc?"

English. He spoke English.

"No. I don't lieutenant."

"I thought I would give pain, at most, at the very worst case, to some Chinese soldiers, or Nork terrorists who made it to Japan. I thought that were the only people I'd ever have to kill, if it was asked of me." Doc's hand slid off of him as he went on, slowly, his words slurring between two languages. "I thought I would be dropped in some bombed out village, or city, or something, and I would be given a place to go, and targets to take out, and that'd be that."

Doc had put his hands on Itami's shoulders again. The very fact he was bald was the only reason why he seemed his elder: it accentuated the frowns on his face very well. Though he held Itami on his shoulders with care that a caregiver would give.

"Underneath my left nipple, I have a scar running over my torso. I'd show you, but I know you trust my word, right Itami?" He nodded as Doc went on. "I was a treating people at the time when I was diagnosed. I had my first residence in a hospital in Detroit- Detroit of all places, and it was in that same hospital I was treated for breast cancer."

Bannon heard this before. She turned away, toward the tankers, but not before putting her own hand on Doc's shoulder. "I'll go get Wilbur ready."

"Bannon!" Itami tried to reach out, but Doc kept him still.

"We caught it late. Me. _I was a fucking_ _ **doctor**_. Of all people who should've known about cancer, it should've been me. _**Doctor Decker Lamareux**_. _I have a fucking doctorate_!"

"What are you saying Doc?" Itami hadn't seen Doc livid before, and it concerned him.

Doc held his hands to Itami's shoulders still. "The surgeon who operated on me was also who I was assigned to. I sat him down one day, knowing of what he would have to do to me, his friend, someone who he was trying to teach as one of his residents. I told him, I told him! I told him that he would have to take a knife, inches away from my heart, and he would have to cut my skin, cut into my flesh, toe a line between killing me and saving me."

Of all the people who have been close to death, it was Doc who had been closest in Hitman. Not from bullet or enemy. But from himself.

"To save myself, Itami, and thus all the people I would come to save with my skillset today, I had to bleed. I had to suffer _ **. I had to let someone else cut a piece of me out of my very being, to live**_."

Bannon stroked Chuka's hair caringly as she sat on the front slope of the tank, speaking English to the tank crew so casually as to not give away what she intended to do to Chuka, to bother her more than she should've.

" _Look, I can swim up, but I ain't the one to be driving a several ton tank into a water just all nilly willy."_

" _This is insane and you know it."_

" _What else can we do though? We're dead in the water."_

His voice was that of doctors. His experience, one of a medic in a special forces Ranger unit. "There is a cancer inside Chuka, Itami. I want so, so badly to cut it out of her. I know you do too."

But it was a voice that was dark, and low. A voice that had forgotten the barrier between medicine and operation. It was the same voice he used when explaining the objectives of the day to himself, when calling out dead hostiles and the alerts to his comrades about reloading, cover, and the intricacies of combat.

Itami felt his eyes water; the air he breathed in felt sharp. Too sharp. Needed to take the edge off. _Where's my cigs?_

"Do you really need my approval? Do you really need me to say "hurt her, to save her?"."

Doc licked his lips, wanting to give so many answers. He gave one. "I want you to understand _**why we do what we do**_."

* * *

 _Manifest Destiny_

 ** _Men are at war with each other because each man is at war with himself._**

 _Francis Meehan, US Ambassador to East Germany, 1988_

* * *

It took an hour of convincing Wilbur to drive his tank underwater, but he eventually agreed as the day began its latter half, threatening to go dark on them. They would be moving by day's end with or without Kingdom Come.

The method he could believe, Yao had helped attest to that. Magic had its usage and he had seen it firsthand.

Maybe the tank crew would've said something if they had known the tank well, if it had been a different world and they were assigned it and told to be in it, boiling underneath a hellish sun, for maybe a year.

Sure, the inside of Kingdom Come had spoken to each other individual veterencies inside of an Abrams beforehand, but that tank was only that: a Frankenstein between multiple eras, a shell with no soul.

Wilbur would gladly wipe his hands of it if it came down to it, for better or worse.

Also, perhaps, the tank crew was okay with it because truthfully only one of them needed to be in it.

"Not what I had in mind when I said I wanted to rebaptise this thing." Dixie wasn't too happy with his position.

"Get fucked!" Chains and Schmack had been more than willing to simply take a ferry over, it itself waiting on the shore, only Schmack at all concerned about the Roman they were standing next to. Still, his cigarette and .45 gave him some peace.

He'd never killed a man this close before though.

He doubted he'd need to though, long as Chains didn't do anything too stupid.

"I'll be there right with ya mate, always wanted to see what the riverbed looked like whenever I surveyed. Not the same as looking through equipment I think."

He spoke, as cool as ever, measured.

"Why would you ever look at the riverbed though, Alton?" The voice of the other elf. She was as innocent as any other of the refugees, and she had mellowed out after she had gotten what she wanted: them as reinforcements.

Bannon had tsked at the Brit as the other elf of the group asked him about his past. Apparently he never said it to her. "Just to see what's under it, dear. I'm a very curious man after all."

"Bi-curious!"

"Hey! Ferryman, start rowing!" Even if the legionnaire didn't understand the language, he understood the command as the ferry took off with the two tankers, one of them heckling.

Surprisingly, it didn't even take a fraction as long to convince Chuka.

"We wouldn't ask you to do this, if we didn't think you could help." Itami had held her hand, sitting her on the front slope of Kingdom Come as Lelei sat on the grass some ways away, in meditation. To see her meditate at all was somewhat alienating: as if she had been a part of some higher order than no one could grasp. The mysteries she had studied though would lend her such membership.

"It's part of the war effort, yes? Everyone has to play their part." As so she understood.

"The American way." Rory hadn't been all that helpful in her observance, mockingly rolling her what little sleeve she had and pumping the guns like the old motivational poster of old.

"She gets it." Wilbur had said like a breath. "Also I didn't know you to be the magic type, Mercury. At least not to the extent Miss Lelena is."

Her Halberd had a rest place, just behind the driver's hatch of Kingdom Come, leaving her hands free to open palms up in front of her face, only to grasp at an unseen item. "In the millennia I've lived, I have not devoted too much of that time to learning of the arcane arts. However my life will always be tied to magic. I am a natural conduit for it."

Yao had always been a proponent of doing whatever it took, and so she was still there at Kingdom Come's side. "Every little bit helps."

"Yeah, me and English are all sorts of magical, right?"

Doc couldn't say anything as he had reholstered Bannon's M45 into his chest holster, brass checking it, the hard case of anesthetic practically chained to his right hand. "Magic comes in all shapes and sizes. God knows I'm a practitioner of some type of miracle at this point."

"So do ya, like, take any notes of this shit like a science officer in Star Trek mate? Bruv from Warlord 1-4 wanted to ask the doctor who works with our favorite refugees the most."

Doc had bit his bottom lip, hand passing over a notepad in his plate carrier. "Mostly theory on what magic does the human body, that sorta thing. I'm obligated to collect data." he gave as halfhearted a shrug as he could give. "Maybe I'll head back to medicine and publish in a journal what I've seen here."

"Hmph. Maybe I should've stayed in the private sector, now that you talk about it. Tons of money. Sounds ripe, don't it?" He nudged Yao.

"I've never been too concerned with wealth Alton. A husband moreso."

"Oh do tell?" It was hard to tell if it was flirting across the British man and an elf who spoke a version of Lingua Franca so ethnic Lelei had a hard time translating, but the point was made.

"Not now." Bannon had, for a second, let the rumble in her croaky voice return, saying it before Chuka noticed.

"Now." Lelei returned from her meditation, stepping up, the jaws all tightening on those who would come through with Kingdom Come. "I am ready."

Gut feelings were often in use by soldiers. It was a 60/40 split of failure and success among that group.

Somehow sink and swim, being both options, were chosen at the same time. Wilbur smacked on his Nicorette, trying to not grind his teeth in anxiousness. For all of his individuality as a British borne man, come into a life of oil, and then as a soldier, he had still been an American Marine and all that it entailed. "Well. Without further adieu, let's roll. Driver. Forward slowly."

"Hug the sides of the tank or ride it. Let's not give Lelei too much work." Itami had said, finding seating on Kingdom Come's mine sweeper. Doc had opted to clamber on top of the turret, Bannon finding the front slope comfortable enough, daughter in one arm and holding the side of the driver's hatch.

Kingdom Rolled forward slowly, giving the riders time to balance, the whine of the turbines coming forth like a child waking from rest.

"You Rangers ever ride like this?" Dixie had casually asked, every fiber in his being trying to fight against going toward the waters.

"Mmm. No." Doc had to answer. "I think our Sergeant Ramirez rode like this during most of his deployment in Iran, though. On the A5s."

"Yeah. That's the type of danger I was used to driving into. Not this."

"You a vet?" Itami asked Dixie, daughter's waist held by his arms.

"Operation Open Wind. I'm originally from the First."

"First what?"

"First Marine Division. No better friend, no worse enemy."

"Well, uh, I figure as Marines, you guys must be good swimmers."

"Tankers don't need to swim, Lieutenan- I mean, Hodor."

There was nothing to more to fill in the silence as the tank rolled forward, angling down ever so slightly as they approached the running water.

"Are you sure about this?" Itami spoke English to Bannon, looking her in the eye.

"Cam has a saying Itami," Bannon said carefully, the treads meeting damp sand. It was cold and wet as wet sand is. "Sticks and stone will break your bones, but words will never break me."

"I don't think we really understand what that means, honey." He responded simply, holding his daughter's shoulders as Doc took in sips of water from a canteen. Chains and Schmack had been looking on apprehensively from the rafts, looking at Kingdom Come ever so carefully creep its way toward water. It all felt so very wrong to the tankers.

"Nothing, nothing about this feels right." Dixie had fretted from the driver's seat, hatch open, sweating bullets. " _Why would I ever drive into a fucking river._ " His rhetoric was the only way he could deal.

Wilbur had smacked his tongue along the roof of his mouth, shaking his head at his driver, Nicorette gum calming nerves in more ways than usual. "Shit, didn't you spend a year on an oil rig?"

"Above water." he retorted, Wilbur only snorting as he flicked one of Schmack's cigarette cuts from the turret into the river in front of them, drowning it out.

"Attaboy Dix'. Come on, what's the worst that can happen? We lose an almost mothballed Abrams to a river as we safely swim up top?"

"You make it sound like High Command wouldn't break our asses because of it."

Bickering. That's all the tankers did. That much Chuka had understood too as she held onto Itami closer by his arm. She knew her role. "How many mountains did it take to create such a beast?" she referred to the tank. Perhaps she was better off asking why such a war machine was needed.

Mountains. Bannon though of home, of Montana as she looked into the water. "Too many, my daughter. Too many. Lelei, you sure you're ready?"

There was nothing Lelei could say to convince Itami of his own confidence of what was happening.

Sometimes things just happen however. Inevitabilities. As sure as any soldier would pull the trigger to save his own life, or a parent to save their child's, it was a natural instinct to just do sometimes.

This was one of those moments as Lelei held out her staff like the wizards of the old tales and spoke a different language under her breath.

Rory, Yao, Chuka, they all felt the same pulse go through their veins as a magic user was so very close to them in her practicing. It cleared their noses, electrified their skin as cold air does, and it gave them a sixth sense they never felt save for when magic was called upon. "She is very gifted." Rory had commented as an aside to Itami. "Shame you concentrate more on me than her."

"What do you mean?" The lieutenant rose his eyebrow.

Her staff was held high and in front of her, leading the way like the biblical figures of Earth she had just barely been able to understand. Had there been apostles and mages on Earth before her? Gods that walked among men in the shadow of Jerusalem? Had they been as the Special Task Force were now? Displaced residents of another world, treading another place.

If Moses was a wizard, she took after him now as the staff glowed and the air of all those in the vicinity of the tank was expelled, but then replaced immediately.

She had stepped forward willingly, testing the waters, but where her footsteps would've been, began a bubble of air forcibly pushing the water away from it, parting the blue. She turned her head around, nodding once, Dixie gulping in what air he could before following her so very slowly.

"You know, Kay has a saying as well." Itami eased out, the Abrams angling downward ever so slowly. He swore he could hear Bannon raise an eyebrow.

"That wrong place, right time BS?" Bannon knew of the term he had favored in his life. She was wrong though, for that term described himself exclusively. Itami had known as an older man that there are the sayings you take on as if identifying, and those you take on as one prefers a set of clothes or food.

"No. It's a phrase we share, but I think he wouldn't mind if I use it with you now."

"And what would that be?"

" _ **See you on the other side**_."

And, all at once, in a groan of metal and gas, the beast slipped under the water, escorted by a band of unlikely chaperones.


	43. 2-21: Disguised as Men

**_A/N:_** Returning to my older updating schedule. That is one every 10,000 hits on this story.

Anyway, review responses:

 ** _Quartermaster Hazardous Blood -_** Immigration is a right in the American Dream. The promise that you can be better here, and not anywhere else. Is it right to follow this dream in a new world, or do you wake up and do as the JSDF does? I don't know. But I know what I prefer, and what I'd fight for.

 ** _ARSLOTHES -_** Perhaps a part of the reason why I've got myself in a bit of fundamental trouble is because of this rippling effect I keep on doing. I've got a bit many arcs going because of it, but a lot of them will be settled by this act's end. But I don't mind, ideally. I like to have them, to remind people that decisions and actions have consequences. You, having seen that, will perhaps see something very... volatile come about in this chapter.

 ** _King Draconias_** \- Thank you for spending time to write down your thoughts. It means a lot for people to analyze, and to analyze correctly if I do say so. My self-insert chapter is something that was too enticing for me to drop off. Coincidentally as I write this down I just got the alert from your last review. Well, turns out you won't have to wait too long for the next update.

I don't sugarcoat much of anything, if at all. Perhaps only in the most bleakest of moments or perhaps when a quip is too good to pass up, do I do it. But I'd be betraying what this story is if I did anything much to censor what I see nowadays, transplanted onto this story.

I want people to think about what manifest destiny is, and how it brings Americans, empires the world over, to wars and strife and what it does to the people there. I want people to understand what it means when characters kill.

It's a tale of intrigue maybe, filled with humans that you know of.

I doubt the guy who wrote this wanted me to take it like this, but I think it's the best comment I'd ever received (asides from yours of course *wink*): cue that lonely bassy sound in my head whenever a quote comes up

 ** _manifest destiny_**

 ** _"Manifest Destiny is more than America fuck yeah. It's either the most insidious kind of America fuck yeah I ever had the the misfortune to encounter or the most insidious kind of 'Fuck you America' I had ever encountered.(...) ...I just can't decide which of the two it is."_**

kilopi505 - On the Spacebattles Forum

It embodies the story, and it's a fair summary of what it is: that confusion. Hopefully it was more out of thematic choices rather than writing...

But anyway, as you said, this is a story about answers that we have to give, regardless of what we know happens afterwards. So I'll ask you a question: What answer would you give, here, in this Region? What would you do to the Legionnaires in this chapter?

 ** _In General_ ** \- I actually cut a chapter in between this and the last: it was about something going horribly wrong underneath the river while Kingdom Come was rolling underneath it. But all it did was add drama, and I've been trying to prune some fluff, so eh.

Three more chapters until we make landfall in Schwarz? I think. I'll shoot for it.

Also, **_hey Faust_**! I'm doing that AU shit again and having the parallel stuff happening. I lifted one line from your Doc to mine in this chapter. Constants and all that. Also I'm trying to put your/Kincaid's sorry ass in a videogame I'm helping produce, at least in name only.

* * *

 ** _Section 2-21_**

 ** _Posted on 7/12/17_**

* * *

 ** _D-Day 64_**

 ** _Falmart - Warlord 1-3's Unit - In the Territory of the Elbe Fiefdom_**

* * *

"I say that's one for the books."

"I say this entire fucking journey will be a book."

They were on the road again, and, asides from the idle chatter between the tankers and the Marines, the rest had been silent as usual, having been able to run Kingdom Come under and through the riverbed.

It hadn't been perfect however. Not when Lelei had been totally soaked and still somewhat shivering, even in dry clothes and a towel.

Chuka had been applying her own magic to the mage, warming her up as her teeth chattered, but was alright.

"Who's gonna write that book? You Nutt?" Schmack and Nutt had talked unbelieving of what they had pulled off. It was an accomplishment, but it was not a cause for celebration as not even five minutes after did they say goodbye to the nomad family and continue on towards Schwarz, now fully within the Elbe Fiefdom.

It still looked the same however.

"Our videocameras should've recorded some of this shit. We'll see when we get back to base and pass it through processing if we ever get back over the Gate."

"Oh shit, you're recording?"

"When we think it's right."

"Damn. Why din't I think of that shit." Chains had been heard about his lack of foresight. The Rangers, in some small part, knew better however. Most footage taken by them would be censored, if not totally deleted outright if Command ever found out they had been recorded. Still, that footage was for themselves in the end: to make them know that it did happen. They were still in this fantasy land, still not having woken up.

Itami had looked at his smartphone, on the dashboard, disdainfully. They got no service this far out. Then again he'd be stupid if he was surprised. They were so far removed from modern civilization they had become truly alone among the fields. Not even the sound of a routine flight from Arnus Hill heard in the distance. At least while in Italica they could hear Noelle's and Mikoda's jets out in the distance.

It only made Itami realize even more that this was the most he'd ever driven in his life: leading the convoy of two other Humvees and a tank. To draw him away from falling asleep from the wheel he had thought back of the American war stories and the Marines: of those same flat landscapes, instead of grass and green, sand and tan. This was his journey from Kuwait to Baghdad. The fiery dragon Saddam Hussein waiting at the end of it.

He had to think of himself more of a knight and less of a soldier personally. It felt better that way.

"Dang." Chuka had cursed, bringing attention to her. "I could never master those heating spells well."

Lelei was half way between sleeping and being awake. She was tired, young thing that she still was as Chuka had her way with her.

"Mmmmm. Mother? Do you remember that one technique you use to boil water?" Chuka had brought Bannon out of her own nap, earbuds in her ears as Itami sucked in breath and realized what Chuka was asking. Of the two of them, Nara had been the most magically inclined.

Lelei too had known, she going from her shivering, trying to bottle it up, only to pathetically lie. "No. I am fine, Chuka. There is no need."

"Nonsense. You're shivering." She cared too much. She cared for the refugees that had come after her, making sure they found a place to sleep when they came. Even as the numbers grew, as long as she hadn't been in a frenzy, looking for her father, she had done her best to find housing that kept families together. Here she had been a woman that cared too much, with people that forced themselves not to care at all.

"See, Lelei's fine." Bannon tried to brush off. She winced at even saying that, acting as caring Nara.

"But mother it's a simple spell, what's wrong with just doing that?" Chuka seemed surprised and disappointed.

It was indeed a simple spell. To not do it would mean something was wrong, and nothing was wrong with Nara.

The three of them there other than Chuka had all looked at each other in uneasy glances, trying to formulate a plan without words.

"Why aren't you doing it Mother?"

Bannon had sterned her, buying time. "Because I don't know if its safe to use this magic inside of a vehicle."

"But you did it all the time back home during the winter months!"

"I think... you should do it, Nara." The Apostle had said slowly. "I know _when I_ used such a spell to warm myself during my travels, it's never been a problem of space."

 _Oh..._

Rory could do it, but Bannon would've needed to fake it.

"Doc. Standby for situation." Itami had whispered into his radio.

Bannon had always been a fast hair grower, so she had been annoyed just that extra bit more as she brushed her bangs out from in front of her face and behind her ears, she also not being used to it being that long again, at her shoulders when not tied up. It had fit her role though, as a simple house wife. A house wife about to perform magic as she steeled herself and tried to think of any excuse she could give that was only becoming more and more flimsy.

"Fine, I'll do it. Just, give me a second, okay?" It was an odd situation to be in, but she'd survive.

Rory had pumped her eyebrows up at Bannon and gave a nod, as Chuka waited, Lelei holding her breath.

Bannon closed her eyes and exhaled, trying to think back to those anime that Masterson watched sometimes about witches and mages; thinking back to how Lelei sometimes used spells. Her right hand had reached out towards Lelei, and spoke a language that no one would understand.

 _"Verhit asseblief hierdie kind, sodat ek nie kan sterf nie. Verhit asseblief hierdie kind, sodat ek nie kan sterf nie…"_ She said the words slowly, as mystically as she could. If her eyes had been open she would've seen the faint red aura, reach out to Lelei and coat her for but a second, radiating through her before turning away.

Chuka had all eyes on her mother thankfully, unable to see Rory do a spell instead, making it seem like Bannon had been casting it.

After a few uneasy moments Bannon opened up one eye cautiously. "Uh… did I do it right?"

Chuka had smiled at her mother. "Do you feel any better Lelei?"

Lelei had been uneasy, but she had been warm now. "Uh, yes, Chuka. I am better now. I am comfortable."

Itami had his hand clasped over his mouth, sucking in air but not breathing, still holding his breath until he couldn't any longer.

It worked, and no sooner had that been done did Bannon sink back into her chair and Chuka occupy herself with something else, humming a tune that she used to play with her stringed instrument back home.

Everyone else had been wide eye'd unable to breath a sigh of relief audibly.

Itami had still been curious though. "Uh… dear? Can I talk to you?" He beckoned Bannon cautiously with a finger. Bannon had leaned forward, grasping Rory's shoulder and giving it a thankful squeeze, to which she had grinned appreciatively back at.

Bannon and Itami were almost ear to ear as he whispered. "What was that you were speaking?"

"Uhhh," Bannon blanked. She hadn't known why she had fallen back to that language of all things. "Dutch… kinda."

"Dutch? Where'd you learn Dutch? Same place you know French?"

Bannon nodded as she licked her lips anxiously, unsure of the conversation. He usually only told Masterson these types of things, yet she relented. "No. It's not actually Dutch. It's something called Afrikaans. My parents spoke it as their native tongue and… well."

"Are you a native English speaker…Lisa?" It was quiet enough that Itami could use her name.

"I grew up with two languages."

Bannon fell back into her seat, giving Itami that. For all that Bannon was, he had wondered, she was a very odd American.

She was a second-generation American, her roots in America as new as any in Hitman save one: Private Omar, a refugee from Kurdistan and the final Turkish military campaigns to stamp them out. Compared to a man who came from a conflict not more than ten years old, Bannon wore her nationality in a way that seemed staggered to those who looked for it. Emerson's blood had been in America since the 1600s. Masterson? He had often spoke about his family immigrating from Germany during the 1800s.

Itami, perhaps by just being Japanese, felt he couldn't understand what it meant to be a measure of American. No more than he did understand some of the refugees taking that title unto themselves when not more than months, weeks ago they were Imperial. It all seemed so chaotic to him for people to just immediately call themselves American: _an inconceivable mystery of a nation that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, struggling blindly with itself_. He did not judge her on it, but if Hitman stood as Red, White, and Blue, Bannon's particular whiteness, literally and figuratively, would be off in such a way that you would see something different, but not be able to point it out.

Perhaps it was just Bannon herself, but there had always been _an irresistible impression of sorrow over her_. Whether it had been indicative of her nationality, her nature or nurture, only she would be able to know, but still, hearing her speak from her heart had been like hearing words, only hinted in dreams, but spoken in nightmares.

Her soul was mad, being alone in the wilderness of herself that had looked within itself and gone mad.

Maybe that was the reason it took a cowboy like Masterson to temper her.

Maybe that was the reason Lelei took interest in her among all of Hitman and RCT3.

Regardless, Bannon was an American still, no doubt, regardless of what had been in blood, her DNA,. What her family had given her as her birth right only added to what she was even if it had been a secret. Conflict makes people stronger after all. As was why Itami and Wilbur wanted to go out for the Flame Dragon in the first place: Chuka, and Yao on a lesser note, would turn out stronger at the end of it.

They all would, surely, hopefully.

* * *

 ** _Later that day_**

* * *

The ATVs and the Bikes had been the forward scouts for the convoy, every hour or so they would take off ahead of the convoy and wait for the rest of the vehicles to catch up. It felt right for the light infantry that were the Rangers, and in this instance, it was useful as the four riders had come across what Cyro's nomadic family had previously come across.

Ramirez had thought he recognized the sight: a crater the size of a building, gone rather deep into the ground. It was deep, as deep as the mass grave that had been used to bury all those thousands dead during the battle for Italica.

"Looks a lot like the Killsat craters, doesn't it?"

Ortiz had said aloud what Ramirez thought, but they weren't the same.

The Killsat craters in Iran hadn't what looked like to be a pitstop along the edge of the crater, it currently moderately busy. In Iran, as far as Ramirez knew, the remains of all but the biggest killsat craters had been filled in by both the remains of vehicles and debris from the cities, paved over by compacted sand and concrete where applicable. A killsat had never been fired into a city however, so the deadliest it could be was left unknown to Ramirez.

"Looks like we're heading in the right direction at least." Annel had taken a knee, peering through her rifle's optic at what she saw: slightly elevated but a few hundred meters away.

Loke had been the one with the radio pack, and a quick message sent back to the rest of the convoy had revealed they were fifteen minutes behind. Fifteen minutes for the four Rangers to be alone on the plains and look at the rather odd pit-stop that this crater had become.

The mellow, lightly shaded plains had been still all that they traveled on, the occasional rolling hill breaking up the monotony. Even travel had become a bore, despite the tension that existed between some of their members.

"They open for business Ortiz?" Ramirez had been ranking Ranger, looking back to their vehicles, going into his pocket for a few spare coins of gold lent by Wilbur.

Ortiz had also taken a knee, propping up his binoculars to the small assortment of buildings that had come up on the crater's edge. "Yeah. Maybe a dozen or so foot mobiles…? Seems like they've got an open-air bar."

Loke made a chirp of interest come by her throat. "A bar? Really?"

Ortiz kept his binocular pinned on what he'd been seeing. A few horses tied up to a post next to the aforementioned bar had made known what kind of patrons these Imperials had been: the bar itself manned by a non-human bar keep.

"Yeah. Open, like one of those bars you see at the beach, or one of those street side ramen places you see back in Tokyo." Ortiz hadn't been exactly at home in Japan before they were deployed to the Special Region. In fact the day of the Ginza Incident was the first time he'd ever gone to the district. In truth, as he had said one night, he felt more at home in Falmart than he did Japan. At least in Falmart everyone that came from Earth had been a foreigner, and not just him, or Emerson, or Ramirez, or Loke, or any other of the non-Japanese or non-white Americans.

If you were White and either American or European in Japan, it was expected. If you were, however, Mexican, as Ortiz and Ramirez had been, and said they had been American, the Japanese wouldn't quite believe them in some ways.

Still, there were worse ways to be an American abroad.

Even here in the Empire, those of completely different species seemed to be of some equal level here, despite the primitive times.

Annel had smacked on more chewing gum, raising an eyebrow as she saw who was behind the bar. "Another lizard."

"Like one of Kay's lizard friends back in Akusho?"

"Affirmative, sergeant."

Hitman had still been somewhat confused as to how Emerson had ever found Seyton and Samnu, but the fact that they had been, in some form, prostitutes, it didn't necessarily write them off as unfavorable. Some people had simply chosen their role, only to feed themselves.

If that had been the case with the Rangers there, they'd be less hungry than they had been now.

A rumble had emerged from Loke's stomach, an uncharacteristic sound from any of them. The pointman did little to hide it but groan and sigh, taking a fist and patting her stomach down through her plate carrier.

"Have you eaten yet, corporal?" Ramirez asked in his deadpanned way of inquiring, almost disinterested, but only in sound.

Loke shook her head. "Eh, not since two days ago, and uh, didn't have much. Just shared some chili with Doc."

Annel had a thing for chewing gum. As much as Masteron had his ranting and Itami had his Manga, she had something for the sweet, mechanical motion that she had with gum in her mouth. "Try chewing on some shit. Tricks your brain into thinking you're eating." The rifleman rolled her head from side to side, her tongue making the cavity in the mass of gum before blowing a bubble out between her lips. "Got some more in my pack."

Loke shook her head as she had ran her gloved fingers through Annel's hair in response lovingly. "Nah, I got a weak jaw. Gets sore really easily if I chew on anything for too long."

Annel had sniffled, shrugging. "I take it you also don't give head?"

"I've been out of practice since I graduated college." She admitted. Not like any of Hitman had been getting action. Bannon had still been a virgin, surprisingly, Loke had found out. As strange as it was Annel had reminded her of the rare occasions Bannon had ever drank with her before Ginza. Loke, being as sweet as she was, had treated Bannon to some off base, Girl's Night Out deal.

Turns out Bannon had a much lower tolerance to alcohol than she had anticipated. It also turns out, from between Loke easily letting her own stories of fooling around in college be shared and the karaoke room they shared during that night out, that Bannon had traded the decency of her mouth during her more desperate days as a drifter.

Details of that human element of people such as Emerson's sexuality, Harris's discretions as a married man fucking Tokyo escorts, and the wet dream fantasies that they all shared was a topic Loke had been somewhat apprehensive about coming into the ultra masculine world of SOF; details which were literally locker room talk that often kept her, as a woman, at decent odds.

But somewhere along the way she had been accepted as an equal and liable to talk that kind of talk as if she was missing out of it her entire life. It was comforting when the men had also been cheering her along when she talked of her own experiences.

It turns out Hitman had been close like that.

"Still got that sorority girl in you though? I was never invited to them when I went to Berkeley. I was too busy with the other athletes."

"Right, I heard the athlete dorms, at least where I went to school, they were just 24/7 going at it. I mean, I could've done track but Theta seemed the more exciting option for me… not that I hear the benefits of being a preferred student being any bad." Perhaps Loke had been so comfortable talking like this because she had been, before, in a brother/sisterhood. Not as intense as she had it nowadays, but still, the grassroots of how she had lived now existed in her sorority house at Michigan State. There was a certain kindness she had that made her the best friend in Hitman.

Or maybe the casual risqué dialogue was something that just came with being in the military.

Ramirez had been in long enough to see the combat segregation between gender come down to attest to that; soldiers stealing moments during downtime in war.

"Yeah. Being a student athlete was the best. They always fed you right at least…" All this time Annel had been staring off at the pit stop, only now turning her head and looking at the younger woman standing next to her. "Wanna go grab a bite if they have anything?"

Ramirez grunted in a nod before Loke could, hearing the suggestion. "I had the same idea."

Loke went into her plate carrier for her own, Imperial money. Like the videogames of old she had been liable to just pick up gold coin if there had been any to be picked up. Millennials like her were hardwired, she unapologetically thought of herself. Being in such a world she, for what videogames she did play in high school before going onto the track team, had thought of being a Redgaurd Dragonborn again and going to location to location, picking what she could along her adventure to aid her.

It helped her deal with their little trek out to Schwarz better. "I mean, if they let us, yeah. Don't see what's the worst that could happen."

"Food poisoning?" Ortiz lamp shaded. "Doubt you want to be shitting yourself when you're riding the bike Talia."

"Please, Damien, I'm about to eat."

The four had dragged their vehicles over to the establishment, and, upon getting closer had seen its name. Translated it had roughly translated to "Tail Hole", but the imagery it evoked was something only the Americans could see, given the play on words.

Indeed there were many things only the Americans could see (or rather, be unable to appreciate) as they rolled up slowly at walking speed, fully outfitted and kitted as they usually were, with only a helmet taken off and put to the side out of regulation.

It'd been a relatively long period they'd existed among Falmart's population, but not so long enough that they didn't feel the dissonance of having casually rode up to the bar and park their ATVs and motorbikes next to the horses, they themselves confused, but too busy resting to care.

Their riders, either taking rest in the shade on chairs or on stools at the bar themselves, had cared even less.

"Foreigners." Loke had heard one of those patrons say under their breath to another.

These were adventurers and solitary nomads. Hardy men who made their living travelling and chasing rumors and stories about dungeons and dragons. It was only natural that they'd all find a place to call common, and, as it always had been, it was a bar.

The lizard that hosted it was black skinned, eyes yellow, mid age, if the Rangers could somehow put an age of him. He was behind the counter, looking at a water collection barrel that had been next to the various jugs and bottles of alcohol, the bar itself a front for a modestly sized building, what anyone could see from the door leading to the back being of both a kitchen and a living space for someone, probably the lizard.

"Reminds me of when I went to the South during alternative break my Junior year."

"Yeah?" Ramirez had acknowledged, pointing out three stools for them to sit at. He would stand and be, at least, on guard. Not that any of the locals there had seemed hostile. It was approaching evening and all of their days, presumably, were too tiring for them to make use of their curiosity of these strangely dressed men and women with weapons of war hanging off their chests on slings.

"Yeah. Me and a few of my sisters wanted to go get fucked up at a bar but, uh… well a Pakistani, a few Latinas, and a ditzy white chick walk into a bar in the Bible Belt."

The Lizard had looked at them expectantly as they approached, one hood over its eye raised like an eyebrow.

"May we?" Loke asked gently, with a smile.

The Lizard shrugged. "I'd be insulted if you didn't."

So they did, gear and all, Ramirez standing by at the ready like some bodyguard. He was used to it, protecting government officials during publicity trips during his time as an officer.

It was odd that no one there had seem remotely curious as to why those four riders had appeared out of the blue and why they looked so odd. It was comfortable, yet disconcerting at the same time, as if some bad voodoo had been with them.

The Lizard was dressed in simple, white tunic, dirtied by dirt and whatever else had been floating around in the air.

From the back of the bar they noticed pails and pails of water, water itself being filtered via a gravity filter comprised of gritty sand and rocks. There had been multiple filters, hanging from the ceilings of the bar and the Lizard's home like bird feeders.

It made sense as to why there had been such an abundance of it in a place in the middle of flat-as Kansas nowhere. When they got closer to the crater they saw the ground water pooling at the bottom of it.

They weren't there for water however.

"Got anything we could eat?" Annel asked, taking the gum out of her mouth and sticking it to her helmet.

"How much you willing to pay?"

"We've got about thirteen-fifteen denarii to spare."

The Lizard flicked its tongue, tail wagging, head tilting. "Well, you all are too rich for my cold blood."

"So what do you got?"

"Soup, tossed with some vegetables. Maybe I'll go kill a bird in the crater and toss that in if you pay up."

"Ah, sure…" The coin was on the table with little fight, and the Lizard was thankful for it. "How long have you been here?"

The Lizard went below the table, taking out four wooden cups, a pitcher of water pouring into each of them. All the while his tail had opened up the stove he had behind him, getting ready to use it. He emerged from placing the pitcher back with several foreign vegetables and a few bowls, taking what portions, he had and chopping them up into the four bowls appropriately. Only then after did he crack a few eggs he had into them before whisking. He talked during it, showing habitual mechanical motion of a man used to serving. "Few months. Maybe three?"

"Thought you've been here for five?" An adventurer lounging by a bale of hale left for the horses had mumbled.

"Interesting place to set up." Ramirez had said, handed his cup of water, looking over it with some disdain. Then again if the Lizard had been here for a few months and people had known him that long, he figured his water was okay to drink, taking a sip as he stood.

The rest of the Rangers didn't particularly mind, drinking their water with little precaution. Water was a comfort to them. Any item of need or want, no matter how small or how simple, was something they wouldn't pass off in the field. They'd been out there long enough to know; to know the strain of resources that they operated on each day.

"Call it a stroke of luck." The Lizard sneered, gruffly, whisking each bowl before retrieving a pot from the stove with his bare hands. Bone marrow from dead birds had provided stock. The pot poured into each bowl, steam coming up and up as the Rangers questioned how this meal would taste.

It wasn't an MRE, nor Corridor cooking or Furata's meals, but it was home cooking as the Lizard stirred and stirred each bowl until it become something analogous to egg drop soup.

"Do you want to actually get the bird?" He asked, getting spoons from beneath the bar surface.

They all shook their heads no. They weren't about to get bird flu here. If bird flu could've toppled North Korea, they wouldn't dare butt heads with it without Doc there. After a few minutes of modest preparation the bowls were passed to in front of each Ranger. There had been an adventurer sitting next to Ortiz at the bar, chewing on smoky slabs of dried meat. The iron helmet he wore hadn't even been taken off as he ate, mind numbingly chewing as he tried to doze the day away.

The smell of the soup, a tad savory, had made him look down the aisle at those who joined him today. He shuffled at his belt for a moment, making Ramirez himself worry, but there was no harm as a handful of jerky had come out.

"Here." The man said, offering it to Ortiz and the rest. "I don't like the pork stuff that he gives out."

Ortiz had paused as he registered the offering, but he had accepted with thanks, spreading it out amongst the Rangers there.

"You're just sitting there to chew on shit. You don't care about the flavor Dranack." The Lizard seemed a little offended about his jerky being given away, though Annel could understand as she chuckled to herself, taking the gum from her helmet, unseating herself to offer something back.

"Chew on this. Lasts forever."

Crude as it was the adventurer didn't seem to mind taking the pre-chewed gum into his mouth and trying it out. The new chewing gum formulae put out by Orbit a few years back had extended the usefulness and longevity of chewing gum to a rather higher pitch. Annel, out of all things, had held the title of having Hitman's best smile.

The adventurer would come to appreciate it as he gruff appreciation, Annel thumbing out a few cubes of her gum and placing it in front of him. Naturally she offered some to the Lizard, he shook his head. "I wouldn't try out those things on account of these things." He pointed to his own spiky rows of teeth. A few were missing however, replaced by what appeared to be some sort of metal.

"Shiny." Loke admired, taking her first sips of soup, being relatively surprised at how it tasted. It seemed like it would fill her up. Ramirez, standing, and always a man of pragmatics, had simply taken the bowl to his face and guzzled most of it down as the rest tried to enjoy the minutiae of a simple meal.

"Thanks. Lost some when my master used to club me. Thought it's fine, could've lost a finger or something."

"Master?"

"I was a slave, and not a very good one at that apparently." The lizard seemed okay with himself enough to talk like this, one arm on the counter. "This area, slave convoys pass through it all the time, and, well, Empire didn't think I was worth the food to keep transporting me so they dropped me, naked, around here."

"Dead weight, huh?" Ramirez took a sip from his wooden cup, returning the bowl to the counter. He hadn't even spent a minute on the meal.

"You're making me blush." The lizard had sorely said, whether referring to how fast the man head ate it or his worth as a person they didn't know.

"Can you blush though?" Loke asked, purely curious.

"Nah. If my tail gets going though, you're making me happy."

"Oh."

Small talk with a lizard barkeep hadn't been exactly what they anticipated, at all, when they shipped out from the US to Japan, and then, promptly, from Japan to Falmart, but it's what they got, even if it had been a touch awkward: silently sipping and taking in spoons of egg stew.

"It's good." Ortiz had said, he being the most willing to eat. He grew up in abject poverty, and could never say no to a meal. That had, at least with Hitman, made him liable to be the guinea pig of the group for much of anything.

The barkeep's tail had wagged just a little. "Thank you. I'm no cook, but, it's good to offer some food to help soak up some of the alcohol."

"So… were you always a slave or…?" Annel followed up, taking more modest portions of the food than Ortiz.

"Well, one day about, four years ago I woke up in my village's jail cell when an Imperial patrol came by and demanded a few "tributes" be offered. Well, seeing as I was in, they figured I be put up for tribute."

Ramirez had tensed a little as he realized he was possibly sitting across from some sort of criminal. "What were you in there for?"

He flicked his tongue, claws tapping on the bar's wood. "Might've kidnapped someone's wife for the night… or well, that's what she said. I got tricked however. And no one was going to believe me."

"Worth it though?" Loke elbowed the bar keep's hand a bit, but the man had been annoyed by the maneuver.

"Did I not just mention I was a slave for few years afterwards?"

"Oh, sorry."

"I mean, as much as I enjoyed being a breeding utility for an Imperial wizard, and then hard labor, I guess I didn't have it too bad. I'm not the type to die in slavery, if you get me."

"How'd you get a bar though? This place seems to be in the middle of nowhere if you ask me."

"Water." A voice from behind them had said. The Rangers glancing over their shoulders had seen an adventurer with a leather water bladder. It was an answer, instead of a request. He held it up to them. "Barkolla here gathers water from the crater and then sells it to us on the paths out here."

The Lizard nodded as he had taken the adventurer's bladder, taking it to a bucket and a faucet head he had made from wood, topping it up. "Yeah, so after they left me for dead I sorta just laid there all day and night, not knowing what to do. Until, sometime in the middle of the night, I thought I felt the entire earth break apart from under me…. I mean, not like that earth shaking a while back, but I mean, actual breaking of the ground."

"I hear dragons are kin to you lizard folk." The adventurer said, a few silver coins exchanged for the water bladder being filled.

The lizard sneered. "I got as much in common with the Flame Dragon as you do with Emperor Molt."

"So the Flame Dragon was here?" Annel tried to confirm.

"Yeah. Turns out the thing had crashed right next to me, putting that hole in the ground out back. Thing was mighty hurtin'. I swear I think Emroy's Apostle did something to it… what'ser name again?"

"Rory."

"Ah right. Well, it was dark, but I could swear I see the Flame Dragon was missing half of everything: wings, legs, arms, I swear its entire head was bleeding."

"Yeah… sounds like the work of Rory all right." Loke said, knowing better.

"Anyway, when the morning came I looked into the crater and saw that water had been building up at the bottom. Like a well. So I skirted down the side and, because I was thirsty, had at it."

"And then you realized that, as the intelligent person you are, that you could make a business out of it." Loke finished him off, he nodding in return, he held up one of his silver coins to the light, admiring what business he had come across since then.

"Where'd all this come from then?" Annel knocked her fist against the bar, referring to the building itself.

"Oh, yeah, a raider group tried to kill me awhile back, trying to stake claim to this crater for the same reason."

"And what happened?"

He gestured vaguely in the distance. "I killed them, buried them far enough away that they wouldn't stink up the place. Took their cart and horse and used that to build up."

It was a probable conclusion that everyone within fifty feet of that bar had killed at least one person, but that was the norm in this region supposedly. At least, this far away from Sadera Hill and the cities. Normal wasn't what anyone wanted to call it, but it was as it was.

The Rangers were in no place to judge as they sipped their water and ate their food.

"So, you're from the army at Arnus Hill, right?"

They all stopped whatever motion they were doing, only to hover their hands over their pistols or rifles. "Right… barkeep always hears everything, don't they?" Ramirez had handled it a bit more calmly than the rest.

"I hear a lot from the traders that come from the way you're coming from. There was this one guy a few days ago, really weird clothes, but the softest material I've ever felt, he told me about you people."

"Did this trader offer to sell you a rug?"

"He did, and I bought one. Waiting for him to come back around in the next week or two to drop it off." Patches was a good traveling salesman if there ever was one. It didn't take the Rangers off their newfound edge as they still dealt with the fact the barkeep knew who they were, even the adventurers seemed to know too. It was of no matter though as the barkeep shook his head. He had known what a soldier ready to draw had looked like, even through modern gear and weapons. "Settle down. You act like I'd kill you for not being an Imperial. You're my customer first."

"Can never be too cautious." The veteran Ranger breathed in a relegated sigh.

"Says the person eating the food of a stranger."

There was nothing more to be said about who they each were. The strained silence that came after, words spoken between held gazes and raised eyebrows, was the communication that the barkeep did not mean any ill-will, going back to tending to his bar and water supply.

The adventurers said nothing as the Rangers kept eating their meal and sharing their water. They said nothing as they made small talk, of what the Imperial Capital was like, or of what their lunches at home, on Earth, tasted like in comparison. Eventually they asked for their hydration packs to be refilled, and they were, and it was normal.

In a world where peculiarities were the normal, there was nothing strange about the Special Task Force to some, as deadly as they were. Dead by sword, bullet, or magic, dead was dead, and that had been enough to keep some adventurers there frank about their reality. Besides, they were human too, at the end of it.

They all said nothing as the convoy of Rangers, Marines, and refugees came to in front of the bar and waited for their members to rejoin. The Apostle, Rory Mercury riding shotgun in a Humvee, a Dark Elf riding along the monstrosity that was Kingdom Come…. Metal beasts that stood silent as the adventurers, like nearly all those before had done so, looked on.

* * *

 ** _Later that day_**

* * *

"1-3. We've got contacts directly to our twelve."

Wilbur didn't even need the targeting optics in his command seat to be able to tell. The tank's hatches had been popped and the crew had been up and out, looking forward on that dirt path that had been, formerly, a highway of the Imperial legions during the original expansions conquests.

They traveled as the sun slowly turned the world orange in the sky, night approaching and another lapse in their travel coming that was sorely needed from a day of travelling.

Bannon still pretended to be Chuka's mother in their Humvee as chatter throughout the convoy was mixed with the occasional hot 2000s song. The roles they played had kept up, momentarily, but Bannon was not a liar, and she had faltered with more things than she anticipated as Chuka saw through bit by bit.

Perhaps the contact was a nice rest from that as the convoy stopped entirely and assumed combat positions.

"Well lookie boys, looks like the circus is in town." Dixie had almost laughed as he saw the carts with cages, the colorful red of the Imperials.

Clear as day, going in the opposite direction. A convoy was a convoy, whether or not it had treads or wagon wheels.

"Yeah, the circus." Schmack had known better as he patted the cover of his 240Bravo. "Wanna load a shell, English?"

The tank commander shook his head immediately as he readied his M4. "Overkill. Let Lumaban and the Rangers handle."

"Please?"

Schmack hadn't been as receptive to do nothing however. Not when he had put on his binoculars and saw the reason why Ramirez started barking out orders. After Wilbur also saw the same sight did he give a nod to his loader.

"Gunner, H.E"

"On the way."

Schmack had hit the switch for the automated door to the ammo, it opening up for the first time this trip. The gate of the ammo rack had opened as the breach to the gun dropped, the old motions of reaching in, grabbing the shell's ass end like a giant baby's bottle, and ramming through the flush guide into the cannon itself had been natural to Schmack. Too natural perhaps, but he was a gear in this machine and as a gear he was well tuned.

"Up!" He notified.

"Standby."

The motorcyclists and the ATV riders had seen them before anyone else, running out front of Itami's Humvee before coming back. What they had seen had made their blood boil as their tires skided to a stop and the rest of the victors to assume combat positions: basically, a wall of vehicles, side by side, guns brought to bear.

Bannon had beat back the instinct to start barking orders. All she could do was look on from her passenger side window as she held her Enfield a bit closer, Itami letting Ramirez handle the situation.

"Black! I need your rifle on the Kingdom Come now! Nutt take over the turret!" The sergeant veteran had commanded. All at once the soldiers disembarked from their vehicles and either got behind them or asides them, prone, propping their weapons, looking out toward the road and the incoming convoy.

The sniper, even with his impaired leg, had basically flown from the Ranger Humvee to the tank, the exo-skeleton on his leg pumping.

Wilbur had heard the command as he had popped out of the hatch, he moving his Browning asides. "Chains, fifteen degrees. Dixie make the adjustment to keep us aimed."

"Copy." The turret shifted as Wilbur had leaned over and given a hand to the Ranger who had appeared from his Humvee, rifle in one hand, being dragged up and onto the flat surface that Wilbur had afforded him as he had spread out prone on the turret. Gradually the Abrams had shifted so that both Black and the turret were cocked appropriately toward their target.

The victors had all gone to either side of the road as the passengers, bar the gunners, disembarked, a road stop made in lightning time.

Black's bipod had been slapped down and out, aimed down the scope as he got eyes on.

"Tons of footmobiles."

Wilbur had tapped Black's shoulder in an affirm. "Keep the gun on target Chains."

"Oh this is a big juicy fucking target." The gunner had lusted. Wilbur hadn't been sure if he was kidding or not.

Black had been more observant, sucking in his breath as he tried to ID who he would've dropped first. Problem was that there was a distraction behind the man with the funky helmet and the horse.

That was about thirty people shoved into a cart, rags and all, chains wrapped around their necks, five carts each. Rudimentary math left little to Black's guess.

"I've got positive contacts on Legionnaires and Slaves. Looks to be a convoy. What's our ROE? Ramirez? Staff sergeant?"

Itami snapped his head back to Bannon as he heard her grit her teeth, her left eye becoming red in agitation.

"What's going on mother?" Rory and Lelei had all been glued to the window, looking out at the contact the rest of their convoy had found. Chuka had been resting since helping out with the river, Lelei herself also beat, but she had never turned up the chance to see the Rangers in action.

"Looks like an Imperial convoy."

"Then why don't the Americans just kill them all? They usually do that to them, right?" Chuka's knowledge of the American forces had been insulting, but Bannon had to agree in a nod.

Even if it was a shoot first situation, there was a problem. Side by side of the cart had been some chained up slaves, forced to walk with the cart as the legionnaires stood guard with them, walking. Collateral damage wasn't something anyone would be a fan of in that convoy.

Slaves were there, in all their suffering, and Bannon would not just watch. The door to her side of the Humvee was unlocked, loud as a gunshot as Itami stared at Bannon. "What're you doing dear?"

She had an answer almost immediately. "I can't just watch."

"Of course you can't." Rory said, expectantly, rudely.

With both her eyes at her disposal Bannon glared daggers before turning to her daughter. Chuka's cheeks had been held by her in a moment of genuine care. "Stay here hun'. Don't move your tush."

"Don't want me to jumping in and fighting now, do you?"

"I'll smack your butt if you do, sweetheart." With that she had slid out of the Humvee, Enfield in her arms.

Bannon had rejoined her Rangers on the other end of the wall, taking her M45 out of Doc's chest holster as she had slid into position on the side of the Humvee, sighting up what she was seeing.

Itami had been totally fine with doing nothing. It was how he lived after all, even if he knew not doing anything right now hadn't been because he didn't want to save slaves, but because he had children to take care of. Chuka's hand touched upon his shoulder though as his daughter saw her mother do something so unlike her. "Usually it was Mother that kept you from doing stuff like this, Father."

"She's different, now, since she met the Americans." Itami tried to push off verbally. "You know how they are. Trying to get into everyone's business and do everything."

"That is a stereotype."

"Maybe it is Lelei. But it's true, isn't it?"

The sound of the M2 on the Ranger Humvee being racked was joined by the M134 on the Marine Humvee. Those two weapons alone could've dealt with the threat, nothing to say of the Rangers and Marines lined up behind or next to their victors, guns pointed downrange at an unfazed Empire, troops slowly moving their way toward the weird looking travelers with their tan carts. They too had seen the other convoy, and they didn't think much of it.

It would've been all so different if the Imperials charged them. How easy it would've been to justify the pull of the trigger, but that's not what happened.

Not at all.

To the Imperials, the crusaders were simply just people who were pulling aside to let their convoy through: they were not the danger that they were. The power of the Special Task Force, or, at least, a part of it, taken away due to ignorance of those who did not know what a gun or tank was.

A lead horse had come up, a Legionnaire on its back adorned in the command colors and decorations of a commander. Not too high up there, but enough to be recognized as an officer. He raised his hand up and there was a smile behind his brain bucket.

"Ave! Hail to Emperor Molt!"

Lelei was the only one prepared at all to respond as she had came out of the back of Itami's Humvee, realizing what was happening. "Ave!" She had, as loudly as she could (which wasn't much at all), responded. She turned to the Abrams. "Sergeant Wilbur! Your cloak!"

Itami had followed Lelei out, telling the rest to stay in.

They didn't.

The Rangers with Bannon's detachment did not wear the cloaks that Pina had gifted them. They didn't consider that bringing them at all would be necessary.

But the marks of knights and travelers had been a necessary implement in identification. What IFF was to the modern world, the mark of orders and holds had held that role here.

Wilbur saw the problem as he popped out again, standing on the turret, holding his cape across his arm and showing it off.

For all intents and purposes, Italica was still an Imperial City-State.

The revolution certainly hadn't been televised here, and the invasion, if you had seen no effects of it, hadn't seen a gun fired, was not real.

Bannon whispered into her throat mic: "Stand down. Be ready."

The rider had come right up to the wall of soldiers, dismounting as he put his sword asides, unassuming and uncaring of the carts before him and the people. Soldiers see many differences among cultures in their life time, and the Empire was known to have many types of Nomads come around.

At least these, he thought, showed respect.

He was only a little skeptical as to what the turret on what was Kingdom Come doing as it pointed and tracked the coming convoy.

"Thank you for stepping asides, citizens! We'll be on our way soon." The centurion, upon closer review, had bronzed skin, no doubt from his travels as a Legionnaire on this road, criss crossing a land greater in size than Europe and Africa put together. His face was bony, tall, worn down by the sun and the weather, but he was as young as many of the Rangers, probably not minding his quiet duty of escorting slaves from one settlement to the next.

"What're they doing?" Itami's questioned wasn't the brightest, but Lelei answer still as she came to the supposed road block with him, going right up with some of the Rangers.

"The Empire controls the trade of slaves in between territories and kingdoms, so as to not have troops of different kingdoms be scattered all over the Empire escorting property. Even private sellers use them to cut down on costs."

"Costs?"

"Italica used to participate in such things." Lelei reiterated without emotion. Having access to the ledger offered her a great many things in her role as chief.

Now that money that was used to handle slaving affairs had been used for… other appropriations. Appropriations that only the CIA Operative, Beckett, could've been able to find out.

And he did as he beat it out of the maids.

Perhaps Lelei was lucky that she had been gone from Italica at that moment. She didn't have to explain the lab in her private quarters or as to why half the material had made the bomb sniffing dog that just so happened to be in the Keep that day with Beckett go haywire.

That would've been dealt with later.

Rory dealt with the Legionnaire before her now as the Rangers and Marines were left speechless by the tact displayed by him. To shoot him now would've felt the same as shooting an innocent man.

There was no guilt to him and how he held himself, even as he carted slaves around.

The Apostle had went forward of the convoy, revealing herself to the Legionnaire, even those left behind with the convoy, and some of the contents of said convoy, pausing before immediately trying to pay their respects.

"Good evening Legionnaire." She said in her Apostle-like manner.

"Rory Mercury!" The Legionnaire took off his helmet and bowed, showing off neatly cut brown hair.

She got right up to him before telling him to rise, she standing at less than half his height. "I see it's business as usual for you?"

The Legionnaire nodded proudly. "What I do every day."

"Hmm. May I have your name?"

"My name is Centau Harkaine. Centurion of General Lombli's Legion, Elbe Division." Like any soldier proud of their rank and standing, he said it true, placing his helmet back on with its red fibers running up along its spine.

Gradually they were joined, Itami and Bannon assuming their positions as heads of that group, Ramirez following in case Bannon needed to break character. Their daughter was an earshot away, being held back by the well-meaning Lumaban, her arm held by her.

"Let me go Perla! I can handle myself." She whined as a teen often would.

"You don't have to, Chuka. Please, let them handle it." The Marine's hand had drifted down to over Chuka's hand, her thumb running over her knuckles. She couldn't bring herself to squeeze her hand tight and keep it back.

"Ah, are you mercenaries? From out west?" Harkaine implored, looking at the grit of all who stood before him. Rory looked up to the Rangers and Itami for an answer. "You all look like fighters, scars and all."

"Ah yes, Rory here hired us to accompany here to the Schwarz Forest." Itami finally answer, rubbing his arm, Bannon refusing to say anything.

"Schwarz?" Harkaine looked at the Apostle and her men madly. "There's nothing there but Dark Elves and, apparently, the Flame Dragon... Maybe not even Dark Elves. Last I heard some hooded figures were seen lurking around, probably taking residence where the Dark Elves were. Have you seen the gemstones that they have? Huge."

It was fortunate that only they had heard Harkaine's words about what had inhabited Schwarz now... that perhaps, maybe, they would've gotten there too late. Still, their scrutiny to him was high as they went on, ignoring. "Yeah, well, we'd figure we just go try our luck centurion. I'm sure you'd love to tell all your friends and mates that you met the great slayers of the Flame Dragon during your travels."

Harkaine snorted as Rory shrugged, her Halberd held at attention. "If mere men could've taken down the Draken King three hundred years ago with nothing more than their wits and poison, I say we stand a fair chance."

"Ah, does Emroy want you to kill them?" the Centurion asked, hand on his sword. "Normally the gods aren't so hands on with their approach. But I won't complain. I admit I have been worried about being picked off by it during my travels recently. Been thinking of moving to Italica's division too, actually, with General Foulke."

The sword he held on his belt was a family one, clear as day, decorated by ribbon and gold, bearing his initials in the Lingua Franca. C.H.

"You a career soldier?" Rory asked again, intrigued. "Not many Legionnaires flaunt such a sword in their work."

"Like my father before me."

Itami had said that Chuka, asides from her crippling, current condition, had been a needy child. She had been as clingy as a shadow, and if it had been an indication of how she was before her village burned down, then they all pitied her parents.

Good parenting nowadays had been an iPad and sugary cereal. At least, that's what Bannon wished she had at some times of her life.

Especially now, as arms wrapped around her from behind protectively.

She had been shocked for a second, assuming a Legionnaire had come around to grapple her. But the arms had been too thin, the grasp itself too weak. Still she had felt her hand ghost its motions around her holster.

"God dammit, Chuka." She had turned around, clamping both her hands on Chuka's shoulders. Ramirez had reached out toward her but suddenly a blue film had faintly appeared around his form. It was an involuntary action: one brought upon by the threat of someone separating her from her parents. Still Ramirez had felt the sharp edge of magic power in that moment, his breath hitched and his teeth grit.

It was only there for a second, causing his combat boots to drag against the ground ever so back, but it felt as if he had about to have been thrown.

It took all that the man had within himself, as both a Ranger and a police officer, to not throttle the elf. There had been temperance in his eyes, rage, as Chuka stared daggers at him like a cornered rat.

Doc had appeared from behind his cover, hard case out and unlocked. It had been a tank of something connected to a mouth piece, his hands digging into the steel, pressurized container as he waited to see what happened next.

"Oh a magically savant elf? I haven't seen one of the wood elves before. Certainly better than the Darkies." The legionnaire thought nothing of it. Of all the elves put into Imperial citizenship, the fairer skin elves had always been preferable to the more mystical and exotic sort that Kay had disguised as in the Capital. Nothing to say of the mystical ice elves that had been as much a myth to the Special Task Force as they were to the Empire in the North.

There was a conflict that had come to be born right there, between Chuka and those who dared stand between her and her parents. Ramirez had tried and gotten a taste of what that was as he reoriented himself, taking a deep breath before ignoring it had happened entirely.

Rory had a twinge between her legs. Being around the Rangers had always been so intoxicating.

Chuka had hid behind Bannon's back, nose digging into her combat uniform's jacket, whispering, "We can take them, right mother?" Her slender hands had graced over the Enfield, strung across her back.

"Oh forgive us," Bannon forced a voice onto herself, one that pained bother her throat and her psyche. She pretended to speak like a mother as he turned away from Harkaine. "Chuka. What did I tell you about staying inside the Humvee. This is adult work!"

Chuka was a 165.

The Legionnaire was polite enough to not budge into family affairs, looking up and away at a cloud that was particularly interesting as the rest of his men continued onward. Normally most Legionnaires in his positions might've been a bit more forceful, totally clearing the road in front of them as they made way for their cargo, stating that they were on Imperial business.

No harm done though. His own mother taught him right, and for all those days and nights out on the road with nothing but slaves and his men for company taking a temporary respite to talk to the natives was okay with him.

"But Mother, you and Father could be in danger. You know what Imperials do to Elves in these lands! It's why we're working with the Japanese and Americans instead of-"

"Enough talking Chuka." Itami put his foot down as she namedropped who they really were, not thinking any better. "We wanted you to stay in the Humvee!"

"Why?! Huh?! So you and Mother can hide more of your lives behind this grand role that the Americans tell you you have?! That you're a part of something bigger than yourself? **_We're elves!_** We're happy on our own like it's always been! At least please let me be with you while you do your work for the-"

It didn't take any psychiatrist to understand that the boiling kettle inside Chuka had let loose some pressure at that moment. Though who could blame her. The Americans and Japanese had been grandiose in their language in Italica and Camp Omega, speaking of concepts like citizenship, democracy, and freedom, to a people who had done fine without it for all their lives. It engrossed, it confused, and to Chuka, to her supposed parents who did nothing but work with the Special Task Force, it seemed like it consumed them.

In her mind, Chuka saw it that way. She had come with her parents to Arnus Hill after being picked up by RCT3, alongside Emerson and Masterson. It was they who had fed her the chicken soup of their MREs, who had shot at the Flame Dragon's eyes by her father's advice when it came for them. Her father and mother thought them so noble, so much of a good people, that they fell into rank with them, as if they were one of them.

So too, for a time, did she. She had killed people in Italica all the same.

It was the trauma of killing that had infested her mind like some in RCT3 or Hitman however. It had been the trauma of a missing piece of herself.

In a million years, perhaps, when aliens came down on Falmart or Earth, and recorded what humans and human-like intelligence were like, perhaps this would be one of their most distinctive trait, found nowhere else in nature:

The capacity for a mind to lie, and make that lie reality to itself despite every other objective fact.

Chuka had been simply trying to survive as fit as she could.

That is why she felt the daze of a magic spell come over her head, Lelei saying the words. It didn't knock her out, it just fatigued her, eyes watering in her own emotions.

"I'm sorry Chuka, we can't let you be with us now. There's nothing you can do, sweetie." Bannon truly felt for her. But she had been a soldier first, putting force behind her hands as she pushed Chuka slowly away, Doc seeing the opportunity and meeting her half way and grabbing her as Bannon led.

"Chuka, go back to the cars. Now."

 _"But Mother."_

 ** _"Chuka."_**

Her voice came out in that instance, turning her way as Chuka saw through the mirror for a second, seeing a woman losing an eye and blood in her voice. If she were actually her mother she would've suspected the same thing: that this wasn't her mother.

But as children do with respect to their parents she had gotten the message and bowed her head down, Doc barring his arm between them and her, shooing her back to Lumaban and the Kingdom Come. She would be upset, but still mentally full.

Bannon remembered another life, a younger her: she remembered the day she had been disowned from her family as she filed the divorce. She knew what it was like to be cast away by a family and all that it brought. It was perhaps the first time in her life she had been angry, and that had only resulted in the bashing of a few vases and glass windows.

If Bannon could survive that, her daughter could survive her poutiness.

"She thinks she's human." Ramirez had tried to cover.

Harkaine pursed his lips, nodding. "Ah, yes, elves certainly do tend to go crazy over the years. Certainly nice of you to take in a feral. Dangerous though."

Itami held a hand to the back of his head. "Oh, well, you know, daughters will be daughters."

Harkaine nodded. He knew. "Perhaps that's why I keep to the roads so much as opposed to with my own family… still curious as to how she thinks your elves too, she hardly looks like you, you know."

Bannon returned, Itami already reaching for a cigarette for himself, and for her. She had shook her head declining it as Itami kept an unlit stick between his lips, waiting for the time to strike his lighter.

"Oh I know, she gets it from her father. The ability to have such a… fantastical imagination."

"Ahhh… okay." There was a block of misunderstanding there that was written on Harkaine's face, but he was being polite to not prod on further as Chuka herself was confused. Perhaps her parents had been lying to her for some reason he wouldn't understand. Perhaps some odd form of Stockholm Syndrome. "I understand, some of the slaves I transport here are in such a frenzy sometimes that they think they're being transported to the Capital to be crowned as the new emperor. Isn't that right?!"

The wink and goading that followed was in good jest as the first cart had made it through them at a slow pace, the slaves looking away from Harkaine as his words clearly hurt them.

Hitman knew what slaves looked like at that point, coming from other missions that took them to settlements and sites where slaves were used. Downtrodden, dirty, resigned to the fate of a world where slavery was normal, questioning not why they had been like this, but rather why they had ever lived at all.

The Legionnaires brushed past them as the Rangers and Marines all froze, not knowing what to do as a literal slave trade passed them by, the guards no more bothered than if they had been guarding food or clothes or building supplies.

The intensity of what the soldiers wanted to do had not matched with what they had received: the mundane. No excitement, no fight, no bitter battle, just a piece of meat not yet dead, delivered to them on wheels.

The slaves didn't even bat an eye at them as they looked in their overcrowded, burning cart, exposed to the elements like meat to be dried. The stench had been that of the dead, and perhaps there had been one or two dead among the masses.

The Kingdom Come had long since stopped tracking with its gun. "Yo English what the fuck are we doing man." Chains had said with a tension that very much edged close to him pulling out his .45 to start blasting Legionnaires right then and there.

"Hold your fucking fire man. They've got it."

"Do you usually transport this kind of cargo?" Rory asked, looking them over, silently giving them all blessings for a future. Her duty as Emroy's apostle would not be a bountiful one if even slaves did not live full lives.

"Oh, them?" Harkaine had gestured to the carts, arms crossed.. They were full, and the excess were simply dragged along by chains along the sides of the cart: walking the rest of the way with bound hands. Their soles had been blackened and almost rotten. Nothing to say of their faces: hidden behind cloth bags. Even then the constant pulsing of them had told the crusaders that they had been panting out of tiredness and heat behind them. "Just slaves. No different than any other good."

 _Just slaves._

The heat in Bannon's face rose as she curled her fists.

Ramirez had turned around and faced away from the group, turning on his throat mic just to talk to the woman besides him. _"Sergeant Bannon, at ease._ ** _Please_**

The radios of the soldiers had picked that up, and Ramirez had been right to say something at all. Some of the Marines had clicked the safeties of their rifles off, many of the Rangers just bringing themselves to almost battle ready. Bannon had gone as so far to draw her pistol, but nothing was done because of Ramirez pointing it out.

 _"Not in front of your daughter."_

If Bannon ever had a daughter, she decided, she would teach her that violence was an answer. Not because of some contrarian streak she perhaps wanted them to have, but because to remove violence as an option entirely would mean that they would be able to be harmed to those who do choose violence as an answer.

She would also teach them how to kill a man.

That is at the right age.

"To which god do you owe yourself too, Centurion Harkaine?"

To be posed that question from an Apostle, who herself was a worshiped entity, was not easy to answer as the centurion backed up for a second, holding the back of his neck and scratching to buy seconds of time for himself.

In those seconds, the carts had made their way to pass, the Rangers and Marines slowly turning over to the other sides of their vehicles for cover.

"I worship Flare, priestess. One who spends so much time under the sun such as I takes care to have reverence for it and him."

Rory had tilted her head with a grin, satisfied with his answer. "Then be sure to pray to him, centurion."

All the browned legionnaire could do was take her words to heart and nod, an eyebrow raised, but a mind not dwelled as they all backed up and stood there, strict and straight, unsure of how to move themselves. "Pleasure meeting you. I'll be off."

They had started going past them as Bannon had shot a glance at her Rangers and Itami. There was no way they were going to be let off the hook. Not when he was Imperial. Not when he was transporting slaves.

They made their decision.

Out of earshot, but not out of mind. The click of every wheel going further and further away from them unfreezing them from inaction.

He knew the question that was asked from her as she had slid a balaclava over her head, the Rangers all imitating their team leader. He knew especially what unsaid question Bannon had asked, knowing her nature, her opinion of slavery. He himself had gone and checked on their daughter, sitting by their Humvee and against its wheels, hazed.

If there was any member in Hitman that carried the white man's guilt, it had been Bannon.

Not out of a traditional American way however. Not the type that spoke back to Jim Crow and the necessary evil that Lincoln might've upheld to sustain the Republic. There was a guilt she carried in her blood, by righteousness, and by heritage.

She was an Afrikaner, a Rhodesian, and she sought to do right.

Perhaps it had been brought out of rebellion against her parents and family, who had so closely held their heritage to their chest.

Perhaps it had just been Bannon being herself, and her moral beliefs she would kill for.

Whatever the case, Itami would have to walk with her in it.

Rory had swayed her hips and turned away from them all, knowing perhaps of what was to happen.

He had agreed with a nod as Bannon had did a brass check of her M45. She spoke out, as platoon sergeant, ordering her people. "Sweep and clear, Hitman. Suppressors."

Itami saw the mask get put on by the Rangers as Bannon said the magic words, and they filled in their roles. It was a tightening of a pistol grip there, the slight tug of a sling there… Itami remembered the preparations before Italica's defense, and he remembered what he had done then as well, looking for a weapon.

Dixie had popped out of the driver's hatch. It was getting late. "Hey, English, hole up here tonight? I feel like we won't get the opportunity to top off the tank later."

Wilbur had nodded as he pointed at Lumaban, the woman getting out of her Humvee and twirling her finger up and around as she looked at Bannon, five of her Rangers dropping down behind the Abrams with her and looking at the carting convoy.

Each turn of its wheel was a lesson in temperance.

The Marine fireteam lead said a prayer under breath for her behalf as she took a knee, Itami running his hand over Chuka's hot forehead before donning a mask himself, Loke adding grip tape to her MP7. She always loved tinkering with her weapons.

She graduated with a degree in engineering after all.

"If we need more than one fucking mag for this we're seriously losing our touch." Black had gruffed as he continued to lay prone on Kingdom Come's turret, rotating around, the bipod to his Mk17 being slapped down and out for his balance again. "…Eyes on one dozen combat effective foot mobiles. Permission to engage Sergeant Bannon?"

"Negative. Just keep an eye on us."

"Affirmative."

And so the Rangers and the JSDF Ranger had went out as those that didn't had simply ignored it and started setting up for the night underneath a dying sky.

"Chuka, dear," Bannon had dashed back to the Hhumvee, grabbing her daughter by the shoulders. "Please go inside the car. Me and Hodor have to help the Rangers."

"Help how, mother?" She said, tiredly.

"Just trust me my daughter." The kiss that Bannon delivered to Chuka's forehead had been a kiss from both their memories. From Bannon's own mother, one day, one time, and from the much more amiable Nara. It came from a place within both of them they held close to their core, but to Bannon, she had used to fake affection. That had harmed her more than any physical wound could. "You will understand one day what some of us have to do for their children."

Black knew how to deal with children, catching wind of Bannon's words, raising his hand and getting their attention. His sister had been a happy mother of five and more often than not he had to babysit before he had gone into the service. Now when he had gone home he still needed to, but he was now 20% cooler to his nephews and nieces because he had been a "sniper".

As a marksman he had somewhat smudged the truth, but little did anyone know the difference.

"Hey! Chuka! Hang out behind the tank with me!" Black had waved his arm over, relieving Bannon and Itami of their daughter as the Rangers looked away and toward the slave caravan, so slowly rolling away from them.

Reluctantly, Chuka moved toward Kingdom Come as Black opened one arm of acceptance.

"Thank you Uncle Jameson."

Black had shook his head fast, almost in revulsion. "Not your uncle, Chuka. Black is fine."

The second she had rounded the grate Bannon was handed a suppressor for her .45.

"Thanks Talia."

The pointman nodded, putting her hijab over her mouth as her helmet came on. She had fiddled, shouldering her MP7. She was more used to an MP5 or her M4, but it was no matter. She would do what she was trained to do all the same to save people.

"Over to you, Sergeant Bannon." Ramirez had known his role, snapping a suppressor himself onto his MCR's muzzle. "Who do you need?"

"Itami? Sergeant Lumaban?"

Perla had tipped her boonie cap down, shaking her head. "This is your rodeo, Ranger."

Itami licked his lips as the operators around him had gotten ready for what would've otherwise been a trivially easy hit in broad daylight. There shouldn't have been any conflict: here he was, about to save people from chains. Though he was the only JSDF among the Americans, and, because of that, he wanted to stay his feet and not do anything.

If he was going to do anything, he was going to do it on his own terms. That's what his gut had told him.

Though that wasn't what was happening. He might as well have been American.

"Anyone have something?" He asked for a silenced weapon. Loke had went to her hip, her M45 coming out without its suppressor.

"Try not to break anything. This thing is kinda important in my role." The hand off was unceremonious, Itami going thumb over thumb in his grip. Like all of Loke's guns, it was worn down, used beyond belief. She practiced with the same exact weapons, month after month, shot after shot, ever since she had become a Ranger a scant year and a half ago. "And wear this, if any of the Legionnaires get close to you they won't be able to claw at your face too much."

She had handed him something of a black balaclava that the Rangers wore too in some variation, hardened material along portions of the cheeks and mouth to provide more protection against shrapnel or fire. He couldn't protest as he slid it on, feeling it conform.

"Thanks, and whose decision was it that made you Hitman's Pointman, Corporal Loke?"

"Masterson." Bannon answered for her, taking a hair tie that had been around her wrist to pony tail her locks messily. "It was better to have her do it than Harris, of course."

The autogunner in question had left his M60 on the hood of the Humvee, his backup SCAR brought up with its own suppressor. Ortiz had put his own face mask over his mouth, the baseball cap he had put on backwards as he got his duty pistol out and drew his sidearm, a Glock. The man didn't particularly care for the inter-member compatibility in gear, but then again he was one of the greener Rangers.

"Should've been a damn 11C with Wilkes..." Annel had breathed through her own face mask, brought up from her gaiter.

"Ain't nothing wrong with infantryman." Loke had told her. "Not like we get the prestige or the big bucks that the 11Zs do."

Loke had been pulling Bannon's leg, but still, the mention of money was something that triggered a part her brain. It brought her back to some civility as she straightened her lips and rolled her head, considering. She'd been making money with Lelei and what she had been extrapolating from her… but the real pay she did have?

"You know we got special pay by being here, right?" She said blankly, roughly.

"Shit, really?" Nutt raised his eyebrows. "Guess I missed that memo." It was a pleasant surprise as he racked back his M4's bolt.

"So, wait, doesn't Emerson make, like, 50k now? Ever since he got bumped up to Captain?"

"I don't know Harris, that bother you?"

"Well, I mean, he makes more than me, and I been in longer…"

"Well maybe if you didn't have to pay all your money to your fucking wife you wouldn't notice."

"I have a wife?" Itami cringed at Harris's form of humor, but it being so surreal all he could do was focus on the targets rolling away from them, even in the Rangers didn't seem to keen to care it looked.

"It'd be nice if we had, like, performance pay, you know?"

"You want to count kills hun'?" Bannon's asked, incredulously.

Loke racked the chamber of her MP7. "I'm good at my job. Is all."

Ramirez had gone as so far in his preparation to unhook his MCR, his M9 cocked back as he screwed the suppressor on its threads. "All of us are, corporal."

Itami, in his ever-present self, had only thought back to that one movie, he had seen as a child. A movie which Masterson had too known, and because of it, he had quoted once, now to only echo throughout Itami's mind.

The Rangers, as they all got set for a takedown, for the kill, putting on their masks and arming themselves for the appropriate situation, they were themselves.

Everything on their form, every block of metal and steel and polymer in their hands, despite how threatening it might've looked, was not expressly for show. It was for doing: _They were not men who dress as mere dogs; they were_ ** _wolves_** _, disguised as_ ** _men_**.

Bannon rose her fist up and Itami then saw how good they all were, all of them assuming their stances, squaring their shoulders as they all directed their bearing toward the rear of the convoy. "On me, five meter spread. Fire when I do. Go." Her hand flattened out and pulsed toward the convoy. With that, they all went, guns up.

* * *

 _"Great, we get to see operators doing operator things… Unless this shit's classified or sometin'"_

 _"All they're doing is just shooting up Romans in the back, Poindexter. They've been doing this shit since we've got here."_

* * *

"Sergeant." They all responded, taking their first steps. They trod forward without urgency, trying not to spook those in rear position in the slave convoy. The distance wasn't far, and they had closed it rather quickly, even if their inner thoughts ha d primed them for the deed they were about to do.

It never got easier, but the anticipation and anxiety each time had shortened until no time was given to even consider the unease in their minds.

Some of the legionnaires had heard them walk on the grass as they approached them, but the Rangers and Itami showed no hostility, not when those unidentifiable objects in their hands were pointed down at their sides, non-threateningly. Sure, the masks were odd, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Many a buyer of slaves had often worn masks to detract from the smell of them.

Harkaine had looked back at them as they approached, not having gone back to the front just yet.

"Hey!" she yelled out, "I need to talk to you for a second!"

Bannon had finally closed the distance, at arm's length. If Harkaine had final words he never was able to articulate them as she took action.

Outwardly the shout she gave out hadn't been too aggressive, voice condition withstanding, Bannon reaching out an arm to the turned man and grabbing his shoulder, looking at him straight in the eye as her free hand had raised the pistol into his stomach. Itami had immediately shifted around her, taking two Rangers along the right side as the rest split for the left, the guards and Imperials not knowing what the raising of black, almost dagger like objects at them had meant until it was too late.

That was all Lelei saw as Black had unexpectedly took her cheeks and made her face his way. " _Hey hey hey hey_ , no need for you to see this."

The hard thrump of metal being punched through by a .45 caliber round was the cue for the Rangers to take flight, their feet moving on their own as they split up, either side of the convoy, weapons raised as Captain Harkaine took the bullet and yelled in agony and pain.

Bannon pumped another two into his stomach at point blank before her hand came for him again, palm up, and pushed him to the ground, his body crumpling as those legionnaires who looked back in time saw those who came for them.

Itami rose his .45 over Bannon's right shoulder as he split off, the iron sights coming to rest on two, half way turned legionnaires. What they saw in their peripheral: Itami pointing at them with that strange black instrument, was the las thing they saw as he opened up across their shoulders, piercing their steel uniform in crunchy, and then wet, impacts, their bodies thrown to the ground by gun fire mulched their insides and Itami pressed onward.

On the left side Loke pushed forward, her MP7 held close as she moved off center of the convoy line, giving her room as the dozen legionnaires at the front finally got the message: they were coming to do business, and the contract meant death.

A legionnaire had tried to duck between carts, but Loke's angle had her throw three rounds down his way, his body collapsing, dead by a gunshot to the back of the head, falling on the chain connecting the carts.

"Hey hey hey hey hey-!" Was all that one legionnaire could scramble for words as he went for his sword, wanting to gesture at the approaching Rangers. His only response, grouped with his other compatriots, was the thump thump thump of suppressed gunfire cutting hot, at first painless, and then agonizing pain through their lungs and hearts.

It was as if the plague had come and gone through them in one second, the slaves saw: one moment they were healthy as they could be, albeit surprised. A split second later, as holes appeared in their chests, they were coughing up blood.

Every time a hole appeared they would jerk, as if getting hit by a physical object even though no perceptible one was seen. Nutt raised his M4, at a group of three, overwhelmed by what was happening, swords ready.

They would never be ready as they saw him push toward them with several other men and women in tow.

Not as one's jaw was chipped by a violent force, emptying out the back of his neck as he grasped at it, only to fall. The other two would never see what happened to each other, not when they were lit up, hitting the ground in a pool of forming blood.

Rangers had split off one by one, pushing into the between of the cart, clearing above and below in pinpoint gunfire. They wanted them dead and it was seen in their snappy movements. Harris himself going prone immediately upon contact, sighting up the shins and ankles of legionnaires, popping off rounds and robbing them of their feet, only to have their lives taken from them as the rest of the Rangers came to them.

The horses connected to the cart had threatened to kick themselves off, but they wouldn't, not when their riders fell dead, Itami coming around in an obtuse bend, off center. His right hand coming to wield his 9mm.

Two riders were caught off guard as they slid off their horses, using them as cover. Itami bent his form down to almost a crouch, trying to catch the legs of the Legionnaires with the two horses. Two rounds flew, and as one legionnaire had hit the ground, so had a bullet to his ankle. The sickening crack had only stirred the horses more as the man cracked down.

If he screamed, the horse had neighed it out of being able to be heard, especially when its hooves had come back down and trampled him.

The other legionnaire had been better off, rushing away from the horses and towards Itami before he could register, backing off before the legionnaire closed the distance ultimately. A shot from his pistol went askew into the ground as the legionnaire, sword in one hand, shield in the other, rushed him.

The shield had been flung from his hands toward Itami, the metal plating on it hitting Itami dead on as he closed his arms together, taking the brunt of it, pushing back out to see a legionnaire too close for comfort.

He dropped his pistol in momentary panic, the legionnaire screaming the scream that put all his force in a swing, however it wasn't enough.

The sword swung across, but just in front, of Itami's chest as he backpedaled, and, naturally, his left hand had went to the knife on his belt. He was fast enough to unsheathe it and push forward, center of the man's chest, before he even finished the missed swing. He felt the plated armor give way for a second, pushing through to his lungs before being drawn out, blade red.

It took Itami's breath away that his body was fast enough to know what to do at all. He hadn't even known when he flipped the knife in his hand to hold it backwards, his feet squared as if there was still more fighting to do. There hadn't been however, not as the tell all sound of bullets upon pierced metal was heard.

The legionnaire had tried to clutch at his chest through his armor, but there was no reaching it, not with seconds left to live and blood coming to leak through his mouth. He looked up at Itami, not accusingly, but just sad. If Itami had processed it with his own lies he might've seen a man die before his own eyes, by his own hands, in less than a handful of seconds. There was nothing to see however as the man jerked crudely on one side, the flared holes of his dress telling of being gun shot.

Itami looked left. It was Loke, moving forward, standing over the body, aimed cautiously at what was Itami's kill.

They could've shared.

She took a quick glance at the red stained knife in Itami's hand before noticing how close he was to the crumpling body. The man was still alive, though on his way out. " ** _Move._** " She ordered, and without thinking Itami did so.

Her MP7 rattled as it fired into the back of the rider's helmet, ceasing any sound that came from it.

He didn't want to look down at who Loke finished up, but he had enough air in his lungs to utter thanks. She didn't acknowledge, stepping off her dead man before kicking him over, face up, looking at his face through his sights before snapping to look over both sides of the convoy. The slaves had all, wisely hunkered down in their cages, not knowing what was happening.

"Clear!" She yelled down.

"Clear!" Harris yelled from the ass end.

Hardly a second had passed before Bannon's etiquette kicked in, she herself standing over three dead Legionnaires. "Deal with the bleeders. Check for keys."

The sound of gunfire rocked through the convoy once more, and, if Itami had been drunk from his combat high, he had been sober once more as he thought about what Hitman had been doing.

It wasn't for him to judge the savagery, but the slaves had basked in it. That's what he called this, the bullet to the heads of those dying: he called it savagery.

It froze him, so much so that Loke simply holstered his dropped pistol for him. She had no problem looking for keys on the body she just dumped rounds in, but she could see Itami did as he only looked at her with wide eyes.

Whoever trained the Rangers, he thought, did they teach them respect for the dead?

She stared back at him, seeing the confusion, the lapse in his mind. If she had known his question right then and there, unspoken, she would've given an answer. Nothing about this was respectful; nothing about taking a life ever was, out in war.

That's what her teacher had made her understand. That was how she lived with herself: to not grasp at the straws of faith and morality that always was at hazard in warfare. There was no use fighting it when you were busy fighting the enemy.

"Foot mobile egressing to the convoy's four o' clock." Their marksman spoke into his radio from Kingdom Come, heads turned that way to see a single, red and silver figure try his best to run as far away as possible.

* * *

 _"Been a long time since I've seen someone run from us."_

 _"Smart man."_

* * *

Bannon had rushed up to the front, finding Itami and Loke. She looked at disdain at her .45. She wasn't Masterson, she couldn't make that shot.

"Do we let him run?" The lieutenant asked. Bannon shook her head at Itami, licking her lips and breaking out in a run after tapping Itami's shoulder for him to follow.

"Black, terminate. Doc with us."

"Copy. One shot coming up." His right hand grasped the grip of his SCAR as he welded it proper against his cheek, seeing, even without the scope, the running man. His left hand had crossed across himself and placed itself over his right bicep, holding it, keeping it still as he could as he transferred his senses from eyes to scope, training taking over as the legionnaire ran so, so very desperately away.

The math was easy, he wasn't zig zagging, and he wasn't that fast. Not fast enough to stop the inevitable as Black made the proper adjustments with his aim bearing, taking in one breath before quickly exhaling, holding his lungs without air, clenching his jaw as he saw the ornate design of a bull on the back of the legionnaire's armor.

Right between that bull's eyes he had decided to aim, and he had a shot, and his now instinct was to pull the trigger.

For about a 150 yard shot, even the marksman had been impressed with himself as he caught a glimpse of the bullet's curving trail through the air, seeing the distortions make a wake all the way to the target.

For a split second however he had detested himself. It was a bad shot. The legionnaire had took that moment to slow his pace and look over his shoulder just as Black took the shot.

He hit him, of course, but he aimed too low.

He never saw the hole, the entry, but he had seen the legionnaire take it, the man jerking, spinning on his heels as he seemingly shrunk an inch, as Black was able to see a glimpse of his front before he fell: facing the sky.

The shell ejected hadn't even stopped rolling before Wilbur started whistling, having seen the shot take place from his hatch, inches away. "Save it." Black said, without pomp, thumbing the radio. "Target hit, need confirmation on the kill."

"Copy."

He wouldn't be lying if he said that's all he felt after taking shots: recoil. Because of that though he felt two eyes burrowing into the back of his head. Two eyes belonging to a blue mage.

"Yeah, what?"

Lelei looked out toward the target of the shot, unable to see the body, but knowing where he generally was. She curled her bottom lip. "You'd be a good magician. Private Black."

"Yeah? How you think?"

"A lot goes through your head to make a shot, yes?"

"I'm used to it, but yeah."

Lelei didn't follow up, but she left Black with something to think about as the groans started coming: the groans of the dying.

Bannon, Itami, and Doc had split off toward Black's target as those that remained did their rounds to the sources of those groans, one of them very much in view of the marksman and Lelei. It took a better part of a second before Black had realized he was the adult here, Harris raising his SCAR to a dying man's head plainly.

The marksman had grasped Lelei's head, turning it away before she could do anything.

The scream of men being put down had subsided over the whisps of suppressed gunfire, and by the time Lelei had torn herself away from Black's grip the fight had been over.

She spoke English to his surprise. "Why did you do that?" If she had any use of any tone besides mono, she might've sound disappointed.

"You seen a lot of shit, missy. Don't need to see this."

"Says who?" She said in whatever defiant tone her blank voice could give Black.

Black flared his nostrils as he considered. " _Professional courtesy_. From soldier to soldier." He motioned with the flick of his finger toward the legionnaires.

"But I'm not-"

"Not you, ma'am. The legionnaire."

He was sobbing, crying, when Itami, Bannon, and Doc found him. It was easy: just follow the red, born from a stub of a leg, Black's bullet having hit his right leg, severing leg and foot from the ankle. So he was left to crawl away, on his back, as he saw two figures approach him amongst the towering plains grass. He would've been buried in green, on his back.

"Please don't kill me- please, please. I beg you! Please!"

Bannon had been quick to rush up to him, the man screaming, only to see his sword kicked away from him. She had backed up as the metal disappeared into the grass, a thousand miles away seemingly to the legionnaire, gun habitually pointed downward at him.

The legionnaire had breathed, a spatter of blood coming out as he did, trying to reach out back to his sword.

"I'll do anything! I swear, I swear!" The legionnaire's begging had fallen upon deaf ears, lost to translation, lost to lack of caring as the three soldiers stood over him.

They looked over him like a piece of meat: a kill yet to be killed.

To them, they were a problem they had to deal with, and, they figured, either now or in 24 hours, left in this wilderness, he'd be dead.

Mercy was in their hand, and they were left to decide. This was their consequence for not killing smoothly: to deal with someone half way there.

Bannon tightened her jaw, checking the chamber of her .45, looking over to the older corpsman.

 _"Doc, prognosis?"_

He didn't even need to move to see the pump of his veins, leaving his right leg stump. It was a lot, too much, even as he desperately tried to grasp at it to get it to stop. He knew how this happened: Black's shot had put it right through the joint, at just right the angle to blow his knee up. Momentum carried the man off his own leg at that point. "He's going to die." his head glanced sideways at Bannon's pistol. She had cursed, she was out of ammo. "Either blood loss will get to him first, or the fact that he can't actually get anywhere to be treated will."

Itami had opened his mouth to suck in air as he heard Doc's English. "You're not going to do anything?" he said, disbelieved in the man.

"Don't have to."

 _"What?"_

"I'm out Doc, got a spare mag?"

"Negative."

All the while the man had been panting, crying, sobbing, confused as to what foreign tongue these people were speaking and why they sounded so casual about it. All of them except Itami, looking with one furrowed eye at the two Rangers.

Bannon had caught his gaze. "We're not about to shoot a man and then save him, Itami."

"We have an obligation to make sure he doesn't suffer."

"We're not taking him, Youji." Bannon said, slowly, in Japanese. "And I can tell you those slaves back there aren't going to treat him any better. Doc, take the shot."

Doc had barely raised his rifle before Itami put his hands on the man's bore, pushing it down.

"Hey, wait! We don't have to waste ammo." Itami tried to feign an excuse. It wasn't enough.

"It's needless suffering, Itami. **_We just talked about this_**." Doc sounded more annoyed than bothered at that point.

Some people are just too set in their ways he reasoned.

Still, he didn't let go of his rifle.

"Youji." Bannon's usage of his name always through him off. She hadn't been as close to him as Emerson perhaps was; she wasn't what he would exactly consider friendly, but she used his name. It was distinctly uncomforting. "We won't waste time on him. He's a goner. And if it's not us, it's going to be them."

She pointed back at the convoy.

Doc tried to raise his gun again but Itami kept the muzzle pointed down. "But he doesn't want to die!" Itami argued for the dying man, panting between the fear, blood loss, and shock.

"He's a soldier! It's an occupational hazard."

Itami got down to the legionnaire's level, bringing him to coherence. "Maybe these people can help you?"

The legionnaire couldn't quite process what he'd said. Not literally, but content wise. It was a death sentence. "I'd rather die!"

"That's the alternative!" He tried to reason.

"Please! Just let me live! I'll be your servant for the rest of your days. Just please do not send me back to **_them_**!"

Doc snarled. "I'm not wasting a damn drop of meds on him."

There was a cleft on this legionnaire's lip from a cut in his past, a unkept fuzz of a beard keeping on his face. The legionnaire was remarkably young. Maybe no more than the first half of his twenties. That was the consequence of being in his thirties, Itami had known in that moment: there were men younger than he that have served. There were also men younger than he that had died in that service. His hair had been oily and grimy, sweat and blood and the land itself adding to its brown clumps, kept back in his disheveled helmet. The only color that was there, asides from his browned skin and the splurt of blood coming from his mouth and nose had been his remarkably green eyes.

Itami saw them and all the color they had, almost as green as the grass around him. He saw the fear, the edge of life that he saw held within him and how, maybe in a different life, a different war, this could've been him.

He deserved mercy. His mercy, not the Rangers.

"How can I help you?" Itami said calmly, crouch putting him in the direction of his stump's bloody spurts. His hands had naturally gone to the man's stump, holding the skin above it and putting what pressure he could.

 _"Please! Take me with you, I beg of you. I don't want to die here!"_ His voice was like breaking glass, the tension making Bannon and Doc liable to put a bullet into him even as Itami was right there. There was no reason for any of this to go on.

"I'm sorry, we can't! But please we'll give you to the slaves, maybe they'll help you out. You were nice to them yes?"

 _"What are you talking about?! They'll kill me!"_ The legionnaire was dazed and confused and quickly losing blood, and whatever Itami could do was only adding seconds to his life, hands painted red.

"They're just regular people!" Itami pleaded back. "They're no more capable of killing. Normal people don't have that ability."

A .45 gunshot was heard back the way they came, and the slaves cheered. More mercy killing.

Normal. Bannon had flared her nostrils, her lip twitching for a second as she considered that thought. A football player, a sorority girl, a doctor, a teacher, a taxi driver, police officer, politician, cowboy… They were as normal as anyone, Hitman, she knew.

But Itami hadn't known yet: he hadn't realized that he was not himself. The lives they all led before becoming soldiers, special operators in their militaries, they were not separate from the normal life they had beforehand. They were one and the same, and to fracture a life into two halves, between experiences lived in one place or another, in one job or another, was to damage the whole.

Itami was as normal as he wanted to be. It didn't change the fact he had put rounds in human beings.

"Why can't you take care of me! Please! Is this too much to ask for a dying man!"

He was an enemy soldier; a man willing to hold people in chains. He asked for forgiveness.

"We cannot. But I assure you we'll make sure the people back there treat you."

There was an anger in the legionnaire that brewed up and above dying and confusion. He understood Itami know, he thought. Itami was toying with a dying man, only to send him off to be tortured later. That was the only reason he would offer help, but not take the responsibility. The legionnaire's dirty white teeth, coated with red, had grinded as he breathed hard, furiously.

" ** _Do you understand why people are slaves?!_** " He pleaded, growing grit in his voice, insanity brewing. "These people-!" He used his bloody hands to reach up, flying at Itami, grabbing his chest. It was a movement too much as his training kicked in and Bannon and Doc seized up. The sound of Itami's unsilenced 9mm had been loud. Its volume was more than sound, but Bannon hadn't flinched at all as the front of the man's head was chipped from top to bottom, from his scalp to his chin.

He was dead in a gunshot, Itami's reactively shoving his pistol to the bottom of the legionnaire's head before pulling the trigger. A twitching body and a pulsing chunk of grey matter was what Itami was left with as he sprang up, out of breath, not sure of what had made him do this.

Itami's thumb had hit the decocker of his pistol as he simply holstered it. He wanted something from her: shock, remorse, pity. Something.

She gave him nothing.

 ** _"I told you to let us handle it."_**

All Itami could do, in his own panting, was stare at Bannon as she just stood there, brooding. His eyes were wide, and, he couldn't realize with the numbness in his face from being so close to a gunshot, to a man being shot and killed, that it was sprinkled red.

Before the man had even stopped twitching Bannon had gone to his belt and retrieved a pair blood soaked keys. Even with one eye she had been observant.

The cheers from the cages was immense. Little did they know that the slaves were watching from afar.

"Is this what Special Forces do, Bannon?" He looked at his hands.

Hadn't he seen Chuka look at her own like this? After Italica?

By god, this wasn't his first kill. But… it was so close.

Doc twitched his nose as he leaned down to pick Itami up, rubbing spitting into his glove and rubbing the blood off of Itami's face. Bannon was already walking back to the convoy. "You should know, mister JSDF S-class Ranger. It's what you do."

His head tried to turn as he was wiped off by Doc, to look at what he'd done, but Doc didn't allow. Not at all, forcefully turning Itami's face away, making him walk back in Bannon's wake, leaving the kill.

* * *

They were uneasy, looking right at the Rangers as they bent down, to pick pieces off the guards: their weapons and armor. Though they did eventually, holstering them, apprehensive of the men and women that came to save them after they had unlocked their cages and let them free.

There was no cheerful thanks, no tearful relief, no somber atmosphere of being freed from chains. Just apprehensiveness that existed between the two sides left standing.

Loke and Nutt shared a quick glance, Nutt raising his eyebrow to a question unasked, and unanswered.

The slaves had torn the doors off of their cages, and some had remained inside. The roofing inside had provided shade after all. Maybe they were boisterous at being released, but not at communicating with their saviors. These men and women, they looked dirty, scarred, scared. They were slaves after all, the Rangers reasoned.

They went and did their business, relieved themselves, pissing on the grass, on the bodies of the dead, treating their rubbed raw skin with free movement and free breath, commandeering this convoy as their own with all their horses and provisions.

Bannon and Itami, they were unsure of what to do, standing there, weapons drawn, but not ready.

"Are you fine? Does anyone need medical help?" Doc asked out, unsure, shakily. The slaves all stopped at once, looking at Doc at once, but, together, they all gave a unified shrug. They were fine. Doc closed his hands in a fist as he rubbed his head, turning back to Loke, standing next to her. "Did I say something?"

Loke wasn't quite sure. "This isn't too different from the other slaves we freed, right?" She asked herself. "I mean, they're hardy, given the situation they're in, they can handle themselves."

"Sergeant Bannon," Harris had shifted over to her side as she stood there herself, unconsciously scanning the slaves. Maybe her necklace, and more importantly the boy she attached it to, would be here. Maybe the hope that she ga- "Hey, Bannon."

"What Harris?"

"Do we tell these guys to do anything? Point them toward Arnus or…?"

Itami had spoken up. "Negative. Gotta keep heading toward Schwarz."

Bannon agreed with a nod, leaning her head into her radio. "Lelei. You there?"

The mage was there in a moment. "Yes Bannon."

"Elbe Fiefdom have anything like, slave trackers?"

"Mmm. No. The Elbe Fiefdom, though they do utilize slaves, do not actively enslave with their forces. These people should be safe."

"That's that then." Bannon talked to herself, under her breath, unsure of why she was still standing there. "Ramirez, Black, Annel, on guard. Rest of you reload and pack up for the night.

Like a wave the Rangers had disappeared back into their proverbial shadow, disrobing themselves of their masks and weapons in the presence of the convoy. Itami stayed however, still needing some time to himself, his own balaclava still on.

He knew that conflict in his mind: the one stuck between saving people and killing them. He had tried to both at the same time. He would be better, Ramirez knew, when he realized that he had no choice in the matter.

If God didn't want that man dead he wouldn't have put Itami there with a gun in his hand and he bleeding out before him. That was what Ramirez thought, time and time again with those he had to kill.

"What do we call you?" A slave had approached, not being noticed by any of the standing guard until he spoke. He meant no harm, he only meant to know.

Ramirez had looked at Itami as he stood there, eyes shown behind his balaclava: a thirty-three-year-old man with the eyes like a hunter. There was a title that the Spanish criminals used to refer to the dangerous men and women who had perpetrated the will of the Cartels along the American South and in Mexico: Just like wolves, those people, those _hitmen_ , would work underneath the night to make sure their prey was finished, eaten, cast asides into ditches, over bridges, hung by their necks with their limbs removed.

Who they were in the day time, among the sheep of the people, had been surprising to say the least. Just as Masterson would boast, they were the assassins among men, black sheep, red tulips in a field of yellow.

"Sicario."

The bearded man had titled his head. His hand had been on his newly acquired sword, Ramirez noticed. It had been Harkaine's, the initials as bright as day.

 ** _"Sicarii?"_**

The equivalent, the left behind from a dead language. If the Empire had come as Romans, this Latin was a left behind from the Roman Empire's own war in the Middle East. If it came full circle, no one could judge, for in the end they were as Ramirez had known:

Hitmen.

* * *

The entire slave convoy left before sun down, off toward where they were going, leaving the Sicarii alone for the night.

It was only by Lumaban's insistence that a night watch still be implemented.

As Ramirez himself stared up at the night sky and all of the stars that came with it, in the back of his mind as he dozed off, avoiding the memories that haunted him from wars long gone, did he think: _"Why did these slaves know what Imperial Hitmen were?"_

The convoy had gone off the way they came, leaving the Kingdom Come and its detachment still on the wayside of the trail as it had been for a better part of an hour. The bodies of the Imperials, or rather, what was left of them after the Slaves had done their business with them, had been given their rights by Rory and promptly burnt in a ditch hastily made by the Rangers.

It was the least they could do.


	44. 2-22R: Ghosts of Crimea

**_A/N: 2-22 this weekend. Here's my most important supplemental chapter yet._**

 ** _Section 2-22 Romeo_**

 ** _"Missions that Never Existed - Ghosts of Crimea"_**

 ** _Posted on 9/26/17_**

* * *

 _ **May 2nd, 2011**_

 _ **Pakistan - Khyber Pakhtunkhwa - Abbottabad**_

* * *

"Ramirez, Lockley, Hull! Secure perimeter!"

Corporal Ramirez hadn't even answered before the Chinook had hit ground in that compound, the ramp unloading with the three Rangers as the rest stayed in the vicinity. The gust kicked up by the choppers had been fierce, loud, within that walled in space, but they weren't here for long as Ramirez slapped on his night vision and held his Mk18 to his shoulder at approaching men dressed as he:

There was an order to things as he took a knee and identified however. "Bacon!"

"Eggs!" The figures in the dusty dark had responded back to the call word. There was no mistaking it to the Ranger, even if it had been the first time he'd seen them. They dressed in camouflage and gear meant only for the best, the steel of their faces deftly like stone in the dark. Each man was outfitted to take on a village's worth of insurgents, and on top of that had been an entire group of them.

It was _SEAL Team Six._

The lights of Abbottabad had sparkled like a polluted night sky, barely a star or light coming through the darkness as the sound of a dog barking wildly in the distance combined with the footsteps of Americans.

Ramirez had taken a knee and stayed there, observing his surroundings, not caring if he'd only be there for a minute, a second. His first mission on the job and he didn't want to disappoint.

So that's why he stood and kept his head on the swivel in the dark: seeing a three-story building in the middle of the compound flanked by shacks and garages and gates. He saw the smoldering wreckage of a chopper left behind, blown to bits, by the men who passed him by now in a hurry:

With them baggage and bundles of black: _**A body bag**_.

The air smelled of gunpowder and sand, smoke and destitute of a town so far away from home.

Distantly, crying wives and children echoed from within, replacing quiet as the sound that betrayed even the Chinook as the Navy SEALS loaded themselves and what they carried into it.

Some of them had joined him as the rest loaded on, securing perimeter, daring those wives and daughters and sons to try, to do something, and see what they would do. The points of their lasers, seen only through the view of night vision and infrared, painted over their bodies as they stayed huddled by the walls of the compound in the shadow of that monolithic, strange building.

He was given no mission details, no extra information, no cause or reassurance. He was here because the US Military needed him here, and Ramirez found his silence in that as he felt the dust hit the back of his helmet from the kicked-up gusts and heard SEALS take a knee next to him before peeling off in military fashion.

They moved in a way that only combat could've, that precision flying their forms as everyone and everything that was supposed to be in that chopper got strapped in, locked down, verified, and silently confirmed. The weight of those that the Rangers came to pick up could be felt even in the chopper.

This was his first mission, Ramirez realized, and it would set the tone for what he did for the rest of his life. So that moment he just took a knee and did security where he crouched extended for what seemed like a million years, feeling what it felt to be a foreign country and be a warfighter. He sensed it all, tasted the tension in the air as one does blood in the mouth, the electrified smell in his nose clearing it so much that it was perhaps the first time he truly breathed clear in his life.

If it lasted one second or one year, he couldn't have known.

But he was only out there for a minute, standing by as what had been a War on Terror passed before him.

"Alright, everyone, on board! Now!" His captain told him, so he backpedaled, gun still out and to his shoulder until he felt the gust of the Chinook beat on him hard and his boot touch the metal of the ramp.

A hand from one of his fellow Rangers affirmed where he was and thus guided him back in as he took the last seat before the end of the Chinook's seating. The ramp hadn't even closed before the Chinook flew through the air, the background chatter being of military code and etiquette, speaking in a language he would not decipher.

He lost view of the Earth to the metallic mouth of the Chinook, and suddenly a breath he held for what felt like hours underwater had been released.

He never looked at the body, or the boxes, that the SEALS brought on board. He'd been a police officer of several years before he became a Ranger, so he knew what a dead man had looked like. And it was no matter, if he had been killed by them, he deserved no recognition.

No recognition was given by those who did look at that black body bag and the form that it covered. No recognition was given to the silence of the SEALS as they all blankly looked around at each other and looked with eyes that had been changed.

Ramirez was a good soldier, so he had taken no recognition for what happened that night, years later. He never told anyone what his first mission had been, he never told anyone what he had thought about it.

Still, buried in the back of his head, as he woke up the next morning, thankful that the first mission he had as a Ranger hadn't even concluded with a gunshot, he came to know what he had done, and where he had stood, and who he was in the presence of, dead or alive.

He was the last American to ever set foot there, on history, no more knowledgeable of what had transpired than the rest of the world. But he was a good Ranger, a good soldier, a good operator, so he had been a man who was never there, taking part in a mission that never existed, and sat feet away from a man who set the world on fire.

* * *

 _ **2019**_

 _ **United Arab Emirates – Dubai – Inside the Storm Wall**_

* * *

"Station Chief Mitchell Beckett! Authenticate Charlie Charlie two six eight golf!" Beckett had raised his hands, his white button shirt nearly torn to shreds beneath the plate carrier he had scavenged from the dead of his team. " _ **I'm a fucking American!**_ "

In his hand had been a Colt Python he had scavenged from his chief team lead, dead beneath a burning wreck, burned alive.

He completed his orders at least. Dubai was a dead city, by his orders.

They found him on top of the Burj Aurora, Dubai's tallest tower, the only place untouched by the sand that buried the rest of the city. It was there Colonel John Conrad had made his HQ during the American 33rd Army Battalion's attempt to evacuate the city, after failing to evacuate Kabul during the siege of Taliban and ISIS-Affiliates just weeks earlier.

It'd been six months since that attempt. Six months since the Storm Wall went up and Dubai cut off from the world.

Beckett had spent six months waging a war he only thought he'd ever fight against, instead of practice.

Regular Army, he saw, based on their uniforms and equipment. In those last six months he'd grown weary of anyone who did have kits as they did, who used dressed as they did, who spoke as they did.

His only allies now, if only circumstantial, spoke Farsi and Arabic.

His only allies had been dead now.

All of them, from his staff, his team, and the civilians who he made fight for him in order to kill everyone in the city.

When the 33rd came, and the evacuation failed, locked in a coffin buried beneath sand, martial law was declared and Beckett had been witness to the future of American involvement in the Middle East: a totalitarian regime born out of survival, willing to do anything it needed to be able to see another day.

He did not see it as that at the time however. He only saw it as a mistake. A mistake that would cost America the Middle East.

What the 33rd had to do, and what Konrad had ordered, if found out, would've sent America into a war it could not have won: one where they were as Saddam had been, that the moral high ground that America barely had left would be gone.

In the end, America fell into that war anyway, but then, there and now, as Beckett stood with hands up, M4s pointed at him in the top suite of the Burj Aurora, he sought to delay that war.

One of the soldiers went to his ear piece. "Command, this is Falcon 1. We have an unidentified American, claiming credentials for station chief. Mitchell Beckett. Charlie Charlie two six eight golf."

Beckett had a Kalashnikov on his back, his fingers permanently scarred from the sand he had dug through for everyday in the last half year. He'd been a Ranger once, before he became an operative for the CIA. He knew what pain was.

The fire of Colonel Conrad's files, personal reports, letters he had made amongst the Japanese sand gardens had been singing his legs, but he cared not for it as he stood still and waited for the radio to speak his name and let them know who he was.

He was almost appalled by how the colonel spent his final days as he stood as the king of a dead city, his troopers trying to keep order in a land wear chaos ruled. It was a man fighting a hopeless battle in a world that did not what him there. He should've left. He should've listened to Beckett when he first came to the city. When the 33rd came Beckett himself had been almost ready to leave the city, all CIA assets there evacuated and what couldn't leave burned or taken out.

It was because the 33rd stayed though that he had to stay with an operative team.

If he hadn't stayed he could only imagine the horror of what really could've happened here, without the CIA and their resistance keeping the Damned in check.

Those last six months he had to deal with injustices, both seen and carried out. He had killed his first Americans, with a sand blasted Kalashnikov as they threatened to take him prisoner and report to the Colonel. There was no way he would come before the Colonel and suffer the fate of his lieutenants, who dared try to oppose him and his rule.

When the water ran out, when the food and the stores sent the remaining populace into anarchy, Beckett was there for once on the flip side, and instead of waiting and biding his time, he did as Bin Laden did, and organized the resistance. For he knew how it ended: everyone would die, and that was what he needed.

The record of the war waged in that city was burning at his feet, left for all time to the fire, crisped to ash in that luxury room full of glass and civility that could be attributed to the East, in the orient.

The only remains he couldn't get to in time had been the body of the man who damned Dubai and his men. The soldiers looked over Beckett's shoulders, the lead troop signaling for two to go past Beckett and check out the body on the balcony: sat on a chair and viewing the entire expanse of a city lost to nature. He was stripped of his officer's jackets, left with only the white shirt beneath, splattered rancid by the remains of his head being spilled onto it. Beckett hadn't been able to tell when Konrad blew his head off: immediately after he had burnt his dissenting command staff, or just days before that Delta team led by that one captain had arrived.

The events that had transpired since the arrival of an outside SOCOM team had been what Beckett needed to bury Dubai for good: that final straw that broke the back of that kingdom.

For a while, he had been stationed in Dubai, conducting CIA Ops from the city before the storms hit. It was where he ended up after Bin Laden had been killed and he had been told to back off from the rise of the Islamic State and the other insurgent groups rising during the unprecedented offensives they had been pulling off that year.

"This is Command Actual to Falcon-1. Credentials check out. You are to assist the Station Chief if ordered. Command out."

The soldiers all dropped their guard now, but still apprehensive about the man who looked like he had come out of the apocalypse. To be fair, he had. The only problem part of it had been his doing in the end.

"I was never here. Anything you might've found in this room, was never seen. Get all paper materials, correspondence, and anything related to the late Colonel Konrad, here, to me. Once that is done you will return to the lobby and wait for me, and then exfil me out of the city to the nearest US Military air strip."

The lead soldier nodded his head. "Copy that."

And they all dispersed throughout the room, picking up letters to sons, letters to wives, poems and grievances of a man gone obviously insane in his failure.

Beckett had been liable to go insane as the soldiers stepped across the room's sand gardens, ignoring what order they represented that even sand, damnable sand, could be made into. Order. There was no order in this world anymore. Beset by wars and terror, perhaps there was order in chaos.

These storms had buried the Middle East and Saudi Arabia; done what the CIA could not as they tried to engineer a civil war from within. Moderates vs Hardcore Conservatives; Rebels vs Loyalists. The plans were there to destabilize a region as the CIA had always done in order to fall a nation so intrinsically tied with the War on Terror that they had, in conspiracy and in cash, started it.

They sought only to destroy a nation however, the CIA… not an entire people as the Earth would have it: reports had been fuzzy, that the Islam's holiest cities had been buried like Dubai. It had been as if the end times had come and it'd been far more devastating than Beckett could even manage. Though that was the cost for peace, willing to be paid or not it was taken.

Later, as Beckett returned to the US and took up temporary post and retraining for Asian affairs, the Central Intelligence Agency had realized that there had been no more to do about the Middle East when half of it was buried underneath an eternal ecological disaster and the other half would be destroyed by the West. That was the bloody, regrettable price to be paid to stop Islamic extremism, and it had been something that even the CIA could not do themselves.

Just like the soldiers that had stepped all over the sand gardens of that suite, they could not destroy it. Only shift.

There was still something admirable in the art of sand gardens however, hailed from the Orient, from Japan.

Yes… maybe he would apply to be stationed in Japan next.

As Beckett looked there, walking to the balcony with the dead colonel still in his chair, a festering gunshot wound through his head, he sought out down at Dubai and realized there was nothing more for him there.

* * *

 _ **2022**_

 _ **Ukraine – Luhansk People's Republic – Alchevsk**_

 _ **Three months since the beginning of the Russian Civil War**_

 _ **Two weeks since Iranian Nuclear Test in the Indian Ocean**_

 _ **Five days until the end of the War in Donbass**_

* * *

"Hey Mikita! I need updates." The Separatist spotter had tried yelling up to their watchman. He had no response though. The man in question had disappeared.

"Ukrainian T-84s! Where's our damned air support!"

"What air support?! Those god damned NATO dogs will shoot down any of our birds that cross the border!"

Ponorev was right in his cynical attitude, the roar of said vehicles heard, even if they were hundreds of meters away. They didn't need to be that close as one shell from them, high explosive, blew into the bottom of his window sill and evaporated him from existence in a blast of rubble, dust, and whatever fragmentation a 120 millimeter tank shell could've done to a human being.

Whatever was left of him was cast upon the other Donbass soldier. A piece of his bone turned to blackened shrapnel nailing the man in the eye and sending him to the floor. He was alive, but the gunfire escalating into the air seemed to descend upon his window where he was firing.

Ever since Donetsk fell all like the dying man who had remained standing in that room had been relegated to that constant soundtrack: of gunfire and the cries of Cossacks, come to reclaim what was rightfully their own.

When a VDV division backed up by the late Vladimir Putin's inner circle and deputies had descended upon Moscow, history had repeated in the form of the 1991 Coup de-tat. This time however, Civil War had come around as a fragmented Russia fought for cavity left by the leader.

Russia had been a monolith in the twenty first century, a combination of nationalistic fervor and political maneuvering. The superpower that would dare, and would be poised, to test America forever. As China's economic bubble popped and began to feel the strain of the largest population, Russia was poised to come out on top as the world power that would dictate the path of history as America was embroiled in a Forever War.

That wasn't what happened however. Not when Vladimir Putin contracted a severe form of cancer that might as well have been a bullet, leaving the man dead and his inner circle open to attack, both politically and physically.

Ministers, advisors, poisoned, shot dead in the street, protested against. The power vacuum and destroyed national pride which had come with Putin's death had racked Russia raw, and as the first bullets came against the Russian youth in Moscow calling for elections instead of special appointments by the Kremlin that was when Russia felt the Civil Wars that it itself had propagated for years.

It had taken nearly 100 years, but once again, armed revolution had come to Russia between the Russian millennials and those who had seen the end of the Cold War.

It was a war that had closed Russia off to the world, and, even today, details about what had transpired within the metropolitan cities of Russia remained mired in shoddy cover ups and varying viewpoints from loyalist, progressive, and splintered factions.

What that had meant for Russian forces abroad was that they were abandoned if unable to come home.

That had meant the proxy wars had started to fall apart.

Ukraine, among others, among Syria and Afghanistan and Chechnya, took the opportunity to take back what was there.

Crimea had been retaken, Donbass had been under siege as the station commanders with the irregulars went dark either because of elimination or desertion, and there was no one behind that iron curtain to answer the calls for help from the SOF that had started that civil war years ago.

The SOF that had started the Ukrainian Civil War by seizing Crimea all those years ago had been Spetsnaz and VDV that had come across sea in a maneuver unseen in peace time since, perhaps, December 7th, 1941. But before the naval and airborne infantry of Russia came and seized that territory, before the riots in Kiev, there had been an insertion of Russian SOF that were not Russian.

They had hailed from everywhere but the Motherland and yet they had served at the pleasure of the Russian Federation for one reason or another: A deniable asset if they had been ever caught: responsible for operations that had served Putin and Mother Russia.

They were there when this war started.

They were there when that war ended.

The SVD marksman rifle in the blonde, track suit clad, balaclava wearing operator's hand had rattled as he lay prone at the foot of the street, tracers by their head as the town's tram had laid as a broken husk in the middle, between him and the approaching Ukrainian Army.

There was no way he could've stopped them all. Not as the rumble of Ukrainian T-80s and T-84s was in the distance and taking pieces of buildings around them in dusty explosions.

There was no stopping them.

The marksman had screamed as he wildly unloaded the last in the magazine, the sound of footsteps behind him making him drop the rifle to the street and roll around, drawing his Makarov and pointing at where the sound was:

More track suited operators like him: no emblem, no badge, no identifier asides from their similar clothing: four others like him.

One of them popped a smoke grenade as he touched the marksman's shoulder, throwing it in front of him.

A larger man had taken the marksman's position and opened up with his PKM through the cloud of smoke, his infrared optics affording him vision that let him cut down the five or so Ukrainian militia men who were keeping the marksman occupied.

"Thank you, Marx." They spoke English as the Marksman thanked, reloading the magazine in his Dragunov. The Spanish man had grunted, his right-hand grasping both the grip of his LMG and rosary beads. The smoke had spewed and climbed as he rolled over back into cover with the rest of his squad.

"We falling back anytime soon?" One of the track suit cladded men had asked in an Irish accent, his Uzi brandished and at the ready as gunfire careened down the street. They were not at all afraid of it, that far into their careers, but the danger was still there.

The squad had all looked at the man with the 590 shotgun, an AK12 on his back. His balaclava did little to hide his fluffy black hair or piercing blue, almost silver, eyes. They were cruel eyes inherently, like that of an animal. He had been snarling more often than usual. The last year had been nothing but constant retreats and successions to the Ukrainians. He, more than anyone, felt the eventual loss of the war hard. This was his homeland.

It might've not been where he was born, but the man with striking eyes had the blood of a Cossack, and right now it screamed at him to die there.

He didn't have that luxury however as he looked around and shook his head. "Come on Covey, orders from the Captain were to pick you up and head back to the current field post."

"And then what lieutenant?" An Australian man asked harshly. "There's not much we can do here. We need to keep the frontline stable to-."

He was interrupted by the lieutenant. "Not our concern. Not anymore. We have new orders."

"Orders from who? General Pilsudsky?" The Australian said in disdain. General Pilsudsky had been one of the last standing separatist officers, and because of that, his orders to their team had been often overzealous and without true tactical purpose.

They felt wasted, though they could not argue. They had no orders from above for obvious reasons. The Civil War had left them stranded.

Until today.

"Things have changed Crowe. Come on."

* * *

The track suited figures had rushed across the city to its furthest end. During the Cold War this particular city had its fair share of shelters created meant to survive a nuclear war.

In theory of course.

The five-man team had made it to the entrance of a particular bunker: the building that hid it rubble and ruin from artillery and air strikes. Three dead Separatist had been at the feet of the single track suited man that had remained there. Freshly dead, freshly bleeding.

The rest of them had assumed that gunfire had ripped through and had taken out the Separatists, but the Captain made no note of it as he gathered his men running across the street.

He was a bald man of Asian descent, blackened goggles hiding his eyes. "Lieutenant."

The blue eye'd man with the 590 nodded. "Captain."

Those two words spoke enough. It spoke to them being glad that all of them were alive and a stray artillery round hadn't taken them out as they came back to where he was and rendezvoused.

"Any reason we pulled out? We were the only reason why some of the points haven't fallen yet." Haven, the man with the Uzi had exasperated. He was a former IRA Provo, come to hide in Russia. A funny man, if not lethal. "I'd hate to leave a leak unattended if I can help it."

The Captain looked to the dead men before him, bullets hitting them in places too accurate to be strays. "We got word from New Russia, the party that seized the Federal Assembly. It seems like they're the only ones standing that'll matter in the end. Dima Degtyarev and his generals contacted us. Seems like at least one of them knew of our existence. "

"And…?" Haven asked again, not getting the point as anti-aircraft fire rang out a block over.

"We have new orders from them before we exfiltrate."

Marx, the machine gun toting Spaniard, had a cigar in between his lips, blowing a puff. The man was a priest once. Once. "What could possibly be the orders? We've been destroying evidence on the way back. Every single damn weapon, intel, electronic we came over here with."

The Captain looked over into the bunker darkly. "Yeah? Guess what remains."

* * *

The group's lieutenant was the pointman of the group, courtesy of his 590 and his almost raptor like tendencies out in the field. He knew how to strike first, and often his strike was all that was needed. His shotgun hadn't been silenced however, so his AK-12 was out.

His AK-12 was one of the first models off the production line, near prototype. So prototype that it only came in semi and safe, fire selection wise. Modification in the armory had gifted him full auto capability, but the enemy would never hear it as he put a suppressor on.

Between the rumble of the buildings, the explosions of war outside the walls, the lieutenant had no worries that the generals below would ever wonder what was happening.

The man had not been born a professional: an immigrant child in a ghetto, a man in tune with animals just by being son of people who owned a pet shop. Perhaps he had played Pokémon a bit too much as a child, but he had been in touch with his inner animal more than most.

He stepped through the door almost casually, the Russian separatists that saw him barely registering his intent with their shell-shocked minds, even if his rifle was at his cheek and they were over their dead and wounded mourning and patching each other up.

He was a common sight to them: a ghost in the flesh. Those of them there who had been from Russia's armed services, the "deserters" (in reality the secretive men in green who came here under orders of the Russian government) had suspicions who the man had been. He was one of them:

Spetsnaz. Russia's eternal answer to the secret war it waged against the West and the terrorists of today.

The rest of his team had been clearing the rest of the building.

This was his room: to finish the job that the Ukrainians couldn't.

He rose the AK-12's stock to his cheek, holding it against his shoulder as he did what he had been doing in that country for years.

In a room of nearly twenty-five men, he only reloaded once.

They couldn't move some of them, connected to their stretchers and bunks. Some were not fast enough to get their rifles and opted instead to try and rush him with their bare hands.

All of them met the same fate however: underneath the finality of automatic rifle fire. It'd been so long since he had first killed in the name of his country and the promise that it'd be returned to him. So long since the feeling of this action had become numb to him and he blotted out the grisly details like caved in skulls, grey matter, and red combining with the gritty crumbles of concrete.

He'd seen men die alone in foxholes forgotten by an incompetent rebel field command. Entire companies killed by a single machine gunner because of lack of indirect fire or a busted radio. He'd seen children die because of incorrect artillery coordinates.

He was sick of it. The cure? Application of lead to people who had failed him, so much, so hard, so irreparably.

His parents would never forgive him.

He killed for the sake of leaving no evidence behind, of keeping their identities a secret. However there was something more: he killed for himself. He killed because it was what it his blood told him to do, and that was all he had left, standing there with a burning barrel and an empty mag.

A single soldier remained there, sitting on an oil can and his comrades all laid there and died from blood loss, choking on themselves, writhing like maggots in a new corpse.

He was smoking, Mikita having missed him by pure chance as he sprayed the room down, however the burn of his cigarette was left unattended as it burned the flesh of his fingers. He was frozen, petrified, seeing death in the face and looking at his future (or lack thereof).

The two locked eyes, and the boy (Mikita knew it was simply a boy, an 18 year old caught up in this war) offered no resistance as the AK-12's mag went into his dump pouch and replaced with a new one.

He could do nothing but let the events as they were run its course.

He accepted finality in the form of a man who had no qualms about killing him and offered the privilege of a few more seconds of that life. In those few seconds, the young man had a million thoughts go through his head: regrets, joy, depression, anger, rage, confusion.

But most of all: questions.

"But why?" The younger man had asked, caught up in a struggle he thought was for his future. No. He would become a casualty of a Cold War that never was between Modern America and the Russian Federation. They all lied to him about whatever reason he came here to fight for.

Why was he born at all and given such a short time in this world? Why had he fought for all his teenage years over the abstract concept of a homeland? Why had he ever lived at all?

A man sent to the meat grinder that never needed to be churned.

The lieutenant ended his life quickly. His AK-12 raised up, snapping a gunshot to his forehead. That was the answer, the only answer, Mikita could give.

In a different world, in a different time, maybe it could've been him dead on the floor, collapsing like a sack of bricks with the back of his head cracked and spilling what was once the essence of a man.

Mikita was a killer though. He was what the Russian Federation wanted him to be, having picked him up as a lost man.

"This is Dimitry-2. All contacts eliminated." He said into his throat mic. Distantly, in the background, he could hear the rest of his team finishing their sectors, and doing the same as he had done just to that boy.

 _"Reconvene in the bunker. We'll deal with the "generals" and then leave this place."_

* * *

They entertained the general and his staff, naturally, as they went into that bunker and dealt with the guards silently, no one in the main Soviet-era conference room deep underground noticing. To them, it was only assumed that Mikita, The Captain, and their men had just come back from fighting hard for them.

The General was a portly man, fat off Russian assurances and meals that the rest of his men were unable to eat themselves.

They entertained him because that, at least, they deserved. After so many years fighting for him, this Ukrainian right-wing separatist of the Donbass, one last audience to him seemed right after so long. So they all filed into his room, save two to watch the door and their exit (dying guards silenced gruesomely by a bullet to their still groaning heads).

The operators spoke to the general and his command staff uncaringly, rightly, telling them of every mistake, every misstep, every hypocrisy that had accrued over the years.

He was speechless.

"This is unprecedented. An anomaly! They cannot sustain such an offensive for long, especially if your government follows through on your promise!" He walked among the board on the table, the map, showing an ever-increasing front of Ukrainian militia and regular military encircling them. Even the small toy soldiers they used to represent their own troops had been dirty, just like them (and quickly falling over).

More and more of their men wouldn't answer their radios, either dead or surrendered, giving up every precious inch left as Moscow themselves did not answer.

There were no more Helicopters, no more Air Force or artillery strikes from across the border. No more ammunition or weapon supplies. No more promises of independence in the name of Russia.

The Captain had sneered, drawing the side of his lip up once, his balaclava rolled up to his bald forehead. His eyes had been striking, able to read people even if he didn't see them. He had that ability, born from an unworthy world and an unhealthy life that led to moments like this.

"Putin is dead, General. His cabinet lost to war along with the ministry who knew we here. Those who put together the operation are busy staying alive in their own civil war. I was in Chechnya when the Union fell, I know how it goes."

"But does that not entitle me to anything? Russia made me a promise! Russia! Mother Russia!"

His stomach jiggled beneath his coat, his command staff all ashamed, heads down.

Better for what was to happen.

"A person made you a promise, General, not a nation." Mikita said, teeth shown like an animal's fangs. "Dead man's words have no meaning."

"How about you?! You made me a promise you good for nothing tools of the state! What use are you if you don't even do your job to me!?"

The General was pleading at this point, pleading for a lost cause that broke itself apart for every explosion that happened above the bunker. Ukrainian Independence was the least of the operator's problems. They had their contingencies however, and so they were down here not to talk to the General and his lieutenants.

They came to cover their tracks as the handgun in his hand was revealed.

Fear was in the General's eyes as he realized there was a smile, a smirk, a righteous snarl on every of the operator's faces.

"Mikita." The Captain turned to his lieutenant at his side. He had no last words as the Captain gave his orders. _**"We were never here."**_

Mikita drew his shotgun from his belt as the rest of the squad knew what that meant, the Captain racking back his own weapon, holding it sideways as General Pilsudsky tried to shove himself out of his chair.

Violence of action was something the Spetsnaz knew best. Spetsnaz as they were, they had no qualms of violence for reasons that went beyond them. It was why Mikita had enjoyed the shockwave of his shotgun blast as it split a man's head in two and offered a look through a man, tongue held out as he was almost able to get out a scream for mercy.

They would never be ready for the Spetsnaz to turn on them. Never in their life. They didn't even have time to think about the betrayal as they were betrayed in a blaze of gunfire: their insides being eviscerated entirely as they were, willingly, unknowingly, put against the wall and faced with a unit who never existed, and would never be proven to be there.

When the Ukrainians came to that bunker and complex, they assumed that infighting had broken out amongst the Separatists as they came close. The world hadn't been watching so any Separatists that survived had been executed for treason all the same, however, as a few had died, they pleaded with the Ukrainians, their fellow Ukrainians, that the Russians had set them up, and nearly killed them all, and left them behind as they disappeared behind as the Iron Curtain raised again.

The Separatists had said this pleadingly, begging for their lives.

But the Russians at that point, Spetsnaz and all, had become only scapegoats for those that the Ukrainians truly blamed for this war. Just as the Spetsnaz had come to Ukraine and Crimea, so too did they leave: without their markings, without their colors, just men on a mission.

Ukraine would become a valuable part of NATO during the counter attacks, German, Italian, and British fighters and attack air craft skirting the border with Russia and providing much needed air support to the embattled nation. In return, Ukrainian Spetsnaz had been among the first across the line during Operation Open Wind, hunting down Iran's nukes.

But the events that needed to transpire for Ukraine to finally join the world in a formation against Russia, resulted in a world where Russia was not the same anyway.

Western SOF would speak of ghost stories where the legendary Russian Spetsnaz were seen, and had been shooting at them. In Iran or in Afghanistan, Syria or Iraq, or even North Korea, there were stories of Russia's specters on the battlefield, chasing after ghosts of their own.

Some of these stories had even made their way to the US Army Rangers, and thus, Hitman before the Ginza Incident. Emerson would think them to be only ghost stories, but _**in a world**_ where gods existed and demons ran amok, Russia's special forces, like Rasputin before them, perhaps might've reveled in horror that seemed so present there.

Still he couldn't say anything after it all. As Emerson came to Crety, and Bannon led her own group through the Elbe, the Americans and Japanese were chasing after the ghost of an American citizen and the ghost of an Elven father.

Emerson would soon enough know that ghosts were real.

* * *

 _ **Six Months since the Ginza Incident**_

 _ **Falmart – Italica – The Fromar Keep**_

* * *

"Grey Fox Actual, go ahead."

"Hey Beckett, it's Black Heart, I have a status on ops being conducted in Japan."

With Hitman currently out and about, Beckett had no qualms in taking over the Keep, especially since a few (All) persons of interests had still been tied up beneath the floor in the dungeon.

They would be out by the time Hitman had been out, and whatever blood or pieces of people they would find down there, he would tell Emerson, had been caused by prisoners from the attempt on Noriko's life.

The truth had been the best policy in his experience. The only matter was whether or not the listener would accept it.

Beckett had been the station chief of both Japan and the Special Region at that point in regards to the CIA's work, however as he sat in the main dining hall alone, papers on the table and a rifle on his back, it meant that his vice chief had to take over duties in Tokyo for the meanwhile.

"Only one point of deviation from expected activity in the area. Chinese wet workers are operating within manageable levels and no new news from the various syndicates within Tokyo… it might be indicative however." He heard over the radio from his acting chief. Beckett only sipped at his coffee as he nodded.

Even as a man, he had been tired.

"Things seem quiet then?"

"Correct," she said. "However, we had a deployment of suspected KGB Operatives insert about a week ago that we lost in Ginza. Our contact in the Russian Embassy points toward an arm of the FSB investigating lost Russian weapons from Korea being shipped in town."

"And?"

"It's actually valid. Past week the police have turned up droves of smuggled weapons: stating inter-gang violence and rivalries causing hidden caches to be either used or discovered after one shoot out or another. We've got dead gangsters showing up by the damn truck load."

"Well that's nice of the KGB… Is there a problem?"

"There was no reason for them to dismantle them. No reason for them to be on the ground. The Russians always keep active investigations open so they have their "do good" card ready at any such negotiations in the future."

"So you're saying there's a reason these caches were blown open?"

There was a strained silence that was uncommon in this line of work. People became operatives and agents because they did have a knack for finding answers.

"They're looking for someone, perhaps. Maybe one of their inside men went rogue."

Beckett wiggled his nose as he looked at the debrief reports from Noriko that the JSDF had gotten from her account. The American that had been supposedly taken by the Empire with her had been, generically, a white man with blue eyes, black, fluffy hair and was built like a soldier. Like one of them. The head count from Americans in Japan during the Ginza Incident didn't help the search for said missing man, but Noriko did reveal one thing about him: He spoke another language sometimes. A modern language.

Beckett had his suspicions but….

"Well then call our inside man and see if he can't dig anything up before the Russians end up whacking him."

"I'll see what I can do."

He had almost gone to hang up the call, but the acting chief said one last thing.

"The Director once again has sent an inquiry regarding the advance team's whereabouts."

"Tell her the same. No further progress."

* * *

 _ **Falmart – The Former Lands of the Warrior Bunnies - ?**_

* * *

"Hey, get up."

The words that always brought him back from the sanctuary of sleep in the reality of torture and pain had never been kind words, but that particular sentence that morning had been kinder than most. Sure, originally he had been screaming his own name, but he doubted that these Romans had been listening or understood. So now he had simply kept his mouth shut.

To hear his name was something he gave up on.

It wasn't enough for him to look up with his black beard, blue eyes, and young face that defied his age. Black hair had sprawled from his head bloody and unkempt: his body naked, save for the rags hanging from his waist that allowed him some modesty in the pile of his own shit, piss, and whatever else that they had beat out of him. Perhaps some flaps of skin too from some form of torture his mind had told him to forget about.

He opened his eyes, but he didn't move his head. He didn't have much the care or the energy too.

"Hey! Get up shit-stain. It looks like someone has come for you."

His chains rattled and he stood on his own feet, piercing blue eyes defiant and alive despite it all.

"Does he even know our language at this point?"

"It doesn't matter. He'll be Pina's and Foulke's problem soon enough."

The Legionnaires came into the cell rather suddenly, and without any preparation for the man to act upon what opportunity there could be. It was, unbeknownst to them, the morning hour. The grogginess that all the other occupants of that communal dungeon wiped away as they realized what was happening as other legionnaires poured among the cells and stood guard.

This man had become rather popular in that hell, treating his fellow prisoners with medical knowledge that the legionnaires did not think a prisoner could have. He did not fight, at least, not anymore. He healed.

Healed everyone but himself as his thin, battered body was brought upon more chains at his arms and legs, and he himself hauled over the shoulders of two legionnaires.

He was a man with no name to the prisoners, and the only reason why his name was ever known to the legionnaires was because that was the only thing they beat out of him. He was the only prisoner from the other world to come to them because he had been so resilient, looked so different from the rest.

He was a built man, strong, and yet scarred. He had seen war, that much his captors knew. Zorzal himself looked upon the man and told Foulke and Hebron to take him away and separate him from the other prisoners.

It was the first time that the man had felt upward movement at all from his groggy state, unable to really comprehend what was happening as he felt himself dragged up the stairs and into the light.

Light burned, but it cleansed as well, doors being opened and fresh air entering his lungs as he realized what was happening, dragged along the street like Jesus Christ himself.

His eyes shot open, the two guards carrying him up unaware. He had been blindfolded when he came to his keep, but he was now without those binds and saw the world as his tired eyes looked through and saw the dirt below, the insides of a keep, and, all too fast, him being dragged through large wood front doors to what appeared to be two more Romans with horses.

There were roses on their chest armor.

Behind them: he saw the vast expand of plains the color of light green, rolling with the wind and the bright blue sky. It was too bright for him to really tolerate at all. It was only with the gust of wind searing his wounds did he feel a beard he didn't think he knew he had now.

He felt like he looked like shipwrecked survivor.

He did look like a survivor, at least, light brought to his body and showing the wounds that, he imagined, was like that of slaves in 1800s America.

"Is this him?" One of the rose-adorned riders had asked.

The guard responded. "Yes. Foulke and Zorzal made special orders for him to be kept here. Don't know why though, he's only human."

The man felt the fresh air in his lungs.

He remembered he was alive.

He was always a man of simple requirements.

His training necessitated that.

"Yeah. Sounds about right. Matches the description too. We'll have to take him right now."

The guards turned to each other, almost thankful. "About time. He was causing too much trouble for us anyway. They were screaming at us when we took him up. Thought we were going to lop off his head."

The riders shook their heads. "Death is the last thing that'll happen to him. The fate of the Empire rests on his survival."

"What? That can't be. He's just a shit nuisance. Anyone who the Warrior Bunnies approve of is certainly trash, just like that whore that's been here for years."

One of the riders shook their head, hand over the rose on his armor. "May I remind you that is Princess Pina's mother?"

"She's a concubine who tried to aspire her daughter to power. Nothing more."

There was a tense silence that even the man could detect, but it didn't concern him as the four Romans approached each other to begin the trade off.

"What is his name, anyway?"

"I don't know. He only ever said one word when we questioned him: _**Mic-keeta**_."

He heard his name, he was reminded of who he was.

The legionnaire at his right shoulder dropped down to unclamp the chains at his feet, the other going for the chains at his arms, thinking that he was too weak to even walk for himself.

He was dead wrong, his right hand catching the chains that he had just been freed of and holding them like wire.

"He's too much trouble any-" the chain at his feet had been whipped up as his feet came free, the man's body twirling around the guard along with the chain around his neck. It was a small chain, yes, blunt, but it was rusty. That had been the trait that had made it bite the bone as the prisoner had jumped up into the air, pulling taut on the chain as he used gravity to his advantage, before nearly tearing the man's head off messily. Both ended up on their back.

The dead man's hands had been sputtering as the last inputs through his spinal cord made him twitch: the three other legionnaires in shock enough for Mikita to drag through the blood spurt and get the sword from the dead man's scabbard, slashing it across the ankles of the two guards as the other tried to dive on him.

Too late however as the man brought his sword up and impaled him in the jump and got on all fours like a dog.

He was still on the ground as he pounced forward on the guard on the right and mounted him on his stomach, dragging the sword up from his leg into his stomach before raising up and taking a piece of the man's jaw out in one go, his left foot going out to kick the other guard to the ground before he could jump back out: the sword pinning him to the ground through his chest.

He rolled off as he left the sword in the man, reeling back his chain and coming to stand, the distance between him and the last guard felt the burning pain in his legs from the slash and tried desperately to stand.

He brought his crossbow up to aim, but he fell with his own weight, sending the bolt flying up and into the sky. His face was busted open by a chain swinging at it, right from left, sending him to the floor and breaking half of his teeth.

The man was the last one standing as he huffed in a new breath of life he had in him, having killed again for the first time in lifetimes. He had almost missed the feeling, feeling the rush of his instinct come back to him.

That same instinct had him heard the sound of beasts and turn around, snipingly paranoid.

It was only the horses, uncaring that their riders had just died and those inside the fort were slow to realize what was happening at the foot of their installation.

The horse it was neighing, patiently, waiting for the prisoner, waiting to carry the man to freedom. However, there was something more waiting for him back in that complex of stone and bars, something he had suffered through. Something that he was not alone in experiencing, for there were others there too. Those that were down there in those dungeons had not spoken a common language he had understood, but there had been a common tongue between them: a lingua franca of pain. Pain, revenge, wanting to do the same to the three men that lay bleeding at his feet right now.

For the last few months this was the only world he knew, and out there, towards the greens of the sprawling plains, there had been an unknown world he was not prepared to take towards, trying to get back to his own home.

Then again, he had no home, no country he had called his own.

Wherever he was heading could wait he had muttered to himself, taking the chain mail under armor of the dead guard onto his form, turning back toward the fort. He would get what he was owed in not pounds of flesh, but the blood of those that had made him suffer.

 _He was a_ _ **soldier**_ _after all._

What else was he to do?

He heard the wriggling of the guard he had smashed across the face with his chains. He had rushed over and put his dirty, hard, foot against his neck before he could yell for help.

 _ **"No! Please! We wanted to take yo-!"**_ the prisoner never understood as he had put his heel against the man's throat.

 _"Nu uh uh, cyka."_ he spoke in his voice, his accented voice, his brain cringing as he switched over languages. "For three months you have fucked with me." he pressed hard down on the man's neck before angling his foot in a different direction, his toes braced against his chin. "Tonight. I fuck you."

That joke was an old one, but it never felt more right to him.

The Imperial didn't have enough time to scream as his throat was broken, his airway was crushed, and he was, by process of elimination, dead.

The dead man's crossbow was picked up. He heard the commotion of scrambling guards behind him as the wooden gates were opened and the surprised soldiers saw who had still been standing.

Just like Donetsk all over, he had thought. As he had loaded the bolt into the weapon he had figured if history was to repeat for him, just as it always had, then at least he could play his part and pretend he had been killing Ukrainians again.


	45. 2-22: The Beast - The Mark

A/N: It's been 16 years. 16 years ago since the world changed. I wanted to post this chapter after 9/11 of this year, and indeed, most of it was done on that anniversary... but it felt wrong to do so at the time that I couldn't bring myself to do, and I still find myself reluctant to post it. But the story must go on and here are the words as I wrote them on 9/11 because I felt it important for a big message written on that day to be known by you folks reading this.

Here are the words from one America's most legendary writers regarding what had happened, and the words that much of the philosophy that goes into this story is built upon:

* * *

 _The Battle of the World Trade Center lasted about 99 minutes and cost 20,000 lives in two hours (according to unofficial estimates as of midnight Tuesday). The final numbers, including those from the supposedly impregnable Pentagon, across the Potomac River from Washington, likely will be higher. Anything that kills 300 trained firefighters in two hours is a world-class disaster._

…

 _And it was not even Bombs that caused this massive damage. No nuclear missiles were launched from any foreign soil, no enemy bombers flew over New York and Washington to rain death on innocent Americans. No. It was four commercial jetliners._

… _._

 _It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy. Osama bin Laden may be a primitive "figurehead" - or even dead, for all we know - but whoever put those All-American jet planes loaded with All-American fuel into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon did it with chilling precision and accuracy. The second one was a dead-on bullseye. Straight into the middle of the skyscraper._

…

 _We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or what will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe_ _ **Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq**_ _, or_ _ **possibly all three at once**_ _. Who knows? Not even the Generals in what remains of the Pentagon or the New York papers calling for WAR seem to know who did it or where to look for them._

 _This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed - for anyone…_

 _[George Bush] will declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won't hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force._

 _Hunter S. Thompson,_ _ **September 12, 2001**_

* * *

This story is built upon the lie of Pax Americana, and the world I've given this story is directly attributed to what happened, upon this chapter's posting, 16 years and, what is really, a few weeks ago.

I suspect some of my readers were not even born at the time.

But no matter how far this story strays from our world, down into the personal paths of my characters own wars with themselves, they are born from a War on Terror.

No forgiveness, we have never forgotten, and as long as people die in the name of who had died on that day, so long ago, this story will be continued to be written:

The story that goes beyond Manifest Destiny. The story that we live in now through every Drone Strike, retaliation, dead American and excerpt on the prime time news.

It is true that deaths in conflict is at an all time low, that violence does not have its monolithic sway on humanity in wart that it once did nearly 50 years ago. But what violence remains is violence at its most potent, and whoever partakes in it is culpable equally. This is what I feel at my core, and what I put into this story through this medium. It might be my self-righteous, obnoxious, wordy self coming out. If that's the case I apologize.

Anyway, review responses:

 **Lord Damon Markloff Darkling** \- Hm. You make it sound like you recognize Mikita from my other story I have posted. If I'm mistaken, sorry, but yes, Mikita was my first OC made years ago, and I wanted to use him again. So here he returns as a captured Spetsnaz operator, partly responsible for kicking off the War in Donbass and the Ukrainian Civil War years ago. I'm sure his reaction, or rather, I know his reaction will be inline with what we know of the Spetsnaz.

 **James** \- Pina loves Emerson in the way a champion does. Or rather, perhaps, an idea. An idea of Pax Americana and all the benefits it brings without the consequences.

 **G-man** \- Uh, sorry. Bear with me, got one more chapter before we hit the Flame Dragon.

 **ATP** \- I am very much aware of the "no witnesses" scoop from that side of the Iron Curtain. I assure you the Spetsnaz I will show off in the story will speak to that side of SOF that the Americans will not. America's SOF are weary, and, although I won't say that the Russian SOF aren't, let's just say they took the War in Terror in a way that would seem... well, read any diary about Spetsnaz in Chechnya and we'll see about that.

 **Doragon** \- I aim to please.

 **King Draconias** \- I built up the reveal of our prisoner a bit, I mean, for the most observant of you readers you would've caught it in the supplementary chapter where he's being beat the shit out of. But this is me just coming right out and saying: the prisoner which the Rangers, the Rose Order, and the Special Task Force is looking for? He's not American. He's Russian. Not only that, but he's Spetsnaz GRU. One of the "Little Green Men" seen in Ukraine: the track suited, balaclava-clad men who were photographed with special forces weaponry in Crimea.

 **Axcel** \- I like you. You're critical and I appreciate it, but I won't play ball with what you say with Vietnam and Afghanistan. Having read this story I'm sure you can understand my opinion on it. But what I will point out is that you read Masterson's attitude pretty well. He says what he says a little callously, a little recklessly and perhaps, on occasion, outright isn't true in his words. But he's not supposed to be. No character is supposed to get anything 100% right because we as people ourselves do not speak 100% rightly in topic matters he speaks of. "White man ruining the world." Yeah, I've caught flak about what he says in regards to that, but that's his opinion, either for real or entertainment value, to make people in Hitman think because that's who he is. But trust me, it's not a reflection upon what I personally think: my characters viewpoints and actions.

* * *

 _ **Section 2-22**_

 _ **Posted on 10/30/2017**_

* * *

 _ **D-Day + 65**_

 _ **Falmart - Warlord 1-3's Unit - In the Territory of the Elbe Fiefdom**_

* * *

She never really got used to waking up with only one eye: the slight panic attack she would have when she opened her vision at the beginning of every morning and have only half of her vision be there for her.

Occasionally her new eye would allow itself to be useful, to let her know that it was on the way to being useful again with the occasional blurry burst of vision underneath her eyepatch. She lived however, and she was thankful for that as she popped her vision open as the morning sun had barely started to creep its way above the horizon, the only hint of light being the moody blue of the sky.

She had groaned, her throat rumbling as she remembered who she was and what had been on her form, her Lee Enfield being the shoulder which she had leaned upon during her night asleep inside their Humvee, Lelei in her lap like a dear.

Rough fingers had gingerly taken Lelei off of her as she had gotten off the top layer of her uniform and piled it into a pillow for her, taking the Enfield with her as she sat silently and observed the immediate area groggily through the windows.

90% of the group had still been asleep, and the ten percent remaining had been as diligent as always.

"Hey, hun', wake up." Bannon had carefully rubbed Chuka's shoulder, not wanting to wake up Itami as well. In her sleep Chuka had twisted and turned, fighting within herself. Her face had showed it more, but occasionally she would twitch, throw her hands around, and do things of that nature.

The older Rangers she had known in the 4th Battalion, those that had been transplanted, much like Ramirez, had done the same. Those that survived the traumatic events that had caused their old battalions to be decimated never truly recovered. Ramirez slept as if a statue, a stone, unmoving and unyielding. Any disturbance upon him and he'd wake up as men of readiness always did: with a rifle in his hand and his eyes wide open.

It was understandable why he slept like that at the very least from the context of one situation: he was one of the resistance fighters in Seoul, and before that, on the frontline in Iran. What sleep he had was one able to be awaken by the enemy.

There was no enemy here. Especially not an enemy that could do them any harm.

After enough coaxing she had given up, Chuka still fast asleep, the rest of the Humvee as well as she slunk out quietly, her Enfield following her.

She slept in her fatigues mostly, her thermal undershirt only kept on her upper body, and for now, it was enough as she took in the morning air, her eyes long used to observing the dark of dawn.

Training necessitated it.

Her body was lean and muscled, by life and profession, strong shoulders carrying a head with a mean face. Her curves had hardened through her life, a far cry from the domestic figure that her ex-husband preferred, but alas it wasn't her body any more as much as it was the Army's.

"You know if Risa had a body like yours she might've been able to beat me for missing some of my alimony." Came the groggy voice of an ex-husband. "Good morning Sergeant Bannon."

Itami said as he stayed half asleep against the wheel of the Humvee.

She nodded at him in response. "Alimony's a bitch." She knew.

"Not when it's to someone who deserve it."

"Don't know what that feels like, 'hun." Bannon said, quietly, a long-forgotten side of her eeking out for but a second: the one where she was a bitter ex-wife. The thermal blankets that she and Chuka had shared had slipped off her sleeping daughter, quickly reapplied and over as the girl had a pained expression on her face. "I'm heading out."

"Hrm. Don't stray." Itami rolled over in the cold, letting Bannon do what she needed to do and slip out into the morning nip.

She stretched out said muscles, the tone on her arms tensing before her bones cracked, loosening herself up, freeing her of the ghost of the weight of all the gear she wore in her career. She was among the stronger female Rangers, despite her size. Smaller than most other average females in the 75th, able to pass training, but able to punch above her weight.

Needless to say, physicality wasn't an issue, even in a world where it was still the norm to have the special forces fighters look like how Masterson did with his shirt off.

Masterson's body had been a body she preferred, emotionally, but there had been physical aspects she appreciated no less. He stood a smidge taller than the six-foot Kay, a bit more filled out that befitted his machismo, but it was a body of a ranch hand. Purpose before prettiness.

' _As if I'm pretty. You're the one that is.'_ His voice was in her head, a devil on her shoulder, an angel in her eye. She had listened to him for a greater part of half a decade before that voice in her head had become the voice from the man himself. Masterson's voice was that of the West, spoken with wisdom born of sand and Native Americans. Like a younger Johnny Cash, his voice was one that Bannon would hear in a crowd of a million.

It was a voice that told her not to take Itami's smokes and lighter when he went back to sleep for a few moments more.

The voice that told her against putting a cigarette in her mouth and lighting it.

She didn't listen to him for once, and that hurt her.

She took her first drag and mused, reasoned, that all the gunpowder she had sucked in from just her deployment here probably would've fucked her up more than any American cigarette. She thought it only a peculiarity that Itami smoked American cigarettes.

There was movement among her, the shifting and gestures of the Ranger who had been on watch during that last leg of the night.

One Ranger, Black, and two Marines. Poindexter and Lumaban.

Black had noticed her first.

"Morning sergeant." the quiet Boston accent had greeted her in the morning nip, she turned around to see her marksman still cross-legged on top of Kingdom Come, night vision goggles on and glowing in the dark against his eyes. Black had been a good soldier, a good marksman, if not a little edgy. "A bit cold, don't you think?"

Bannon had known what he had meant as she shook her body down for a second, her pale skin going the way of goose flesh and her thermal shirt peaking at two places about chest high. "Urgmh." her grumbling had communicated that she wanted a little more substance in Black's morning report than observing her nipples.

"Nothing special, ma'am. Saw a bunch of pigs about a three-quarter klick out that way," he pointed with his gloved hand in the general direction of west of their resting point. "also saw one trader travelling the night, didn't notice us."

Bannon stood there, looking out at the emptiness, blowing smoke as if it had been the coffee she needed to wake up.

"Hogs?" Bannon had finally said a word, Black nodding.

The first time she had ever used a gun had been about two years after her divorce and forced out onto the road: hunting wild hogs in Texas for bounty. The concept of taking another living being's life had been foreign to her at the time, an indescribable act which she had not thought she was able to do. Time and history however had told her otherwise.

Her personal feelings about killing had been put aside. She was hungry, cold, desperate for money, and willing to pull the trigger in exchange for ten dollars a body.

It was worth it she had reasoned with herself at the time.

Here, in a world away from home, she was hungry, cold, and wanting to go out for some alone time before this little party of theirs had moved on for the day.

"Private Black, get a fire going. I'm gonna go get breakfast." she said without much explanation, taking off with only her rifle and the clothes on her back into the morning world.

Schmack had groaned awake as he heard Bannon's crunchy footsteps quickly disappear into the dawn, the man bringing his body up into the loader's hatch, yawning once as he looked at his watch while simultaneously lighting a cigarette. "…Mother fucker. Only four hours of sleep?"

"Hour more than usual." Black had said as he cradled his SCAR in his arms, looking at his watch and seeing it was four in the morning. "Morning tanker."

"Mornin' Ranger. Who was that?" He was already lighting a cigarette.

"Sergeant Bannon, she's going out for groceries." Black had said frankly, leaning back onto the turret's top and checking on Lumaban, she giving a thumb up in response.

She was always quiet. Quiet enough that she got a jump on the Ranger marksman and the tanker. "Where is my mother?"

The two men had jumped in their skin as they turned around and her the broken English of Chuka. British sounding, if nothing else.

The cigarette in Schmack's mouth had tumbled out and down, on top of the head of Wilbur, the man yelping out in pain and instinctually throwing a few punches up. Shchmack was more than ready to give his tank commander a few boot marks on his dirty ginger head. _"Fuck off twat. Lemme sleep a bit mooo'ah."_

"Is English the one who taught you…uh, English, girl?" Schmack had gruffed, getting another cigarette out and lighting it.

"Hm?" Chuka tilted her head innocently, not sure what Schmack was asking.

Chuka was dressed as she always was: t-shirt and hip hugging jeans, her father's jacket over her. Itami's field jacket kept her warm in the chill of the morning, red scarf around her neck. Black pursed his lips as he looked her in the eye and remembered she was not human. She was as good as an alien really, but was as human as anyone there. Perhaps more so.

"You just missed Mommy, went out that way." Schmack grumbled, taking another drag. Black had looked over at him, eyebrow raised, wondering if it was a good decision. A daughter had a right to know where her mother was after all, pointing off in the direction. He unclipped a small plastic box from his belt, tossing it down to the elf.

"Wear this, don't want you getting lost." It was a flashing IR strobe, and Chuka didn't question as she hooked it on her belt loop.

"Oh, it's no worry." She said promptly, snapping her fingers together and summoning, after a brief pause, soothing, floating balls of light that ghosted her movements like fireflies.

Out she went on the plains, chasing after the ghost of her mother, and the soldiers did nothing to stop it.

* * *

Follow the matted down grass, the shit, the stench. She knew how to track boars, wild feral hogs of the American West. If the season was right and ammo was cheap, she would find a rifle through some means or another and start going after hogs. If she didn't eat them herself she would sell the bodies and tags for dollars.

It wasn't enough to support her: Americans always had romanticized the hunt and when the rest of the West found itself in dire financial straights, hunting hogs became a norm and sooner, rather than later, did trucks full of overzealous teenagers wanting to get their first kill rode out into the plains of Texas and put lead into anything that look like a feral hog.

The phenomenon had put hobos like Bannon out of it, but she never forgot the fundamentals which led her to a crest of a small hill, prone, dirt, possibly shit, and stray strands of grass making their way into the threads of her fatigues and hair.

Even with one eye she was able to spy the aforementioned pack of hogs grazing.

Menial activities like fulfilling her part in the circle of life had made the dull ache of her left eye disappear for the moment as she peered with her remaining the activities of these hogs.

Lack of human intervention had led these Falmartian hogs to grow maybe a little less aggressive than those she had previously seen. Feral, but less so, their size not as big, but the males sporting large tusks and, generally, their coats of fur offering odd, almost rainbow-like sheen ontop of matte black fur.

Wildlife was yet to be fully deciphered here in Falmart, but the lack of civil scientists due to security concerns of the STF had left it to be a mystery of another day.

Bannon was at home being a predator, preying on other predators, so her mind had shifted to it. Nothing of being a Ranger, or a faux-mother, just a woman with people to feed and the means to do it, her Enfield brought up from her side and slid onto the ground, cheek on stock and shoulder braced.

Her right eye had looked down the sight at the silhouette of the pack, a fair distance away. Possibly no more than football field length at an elevated position. Any shot she would take she would find a hit.

The Enfield was an unwieldy weapon to her M4 Carbine however, which was why when she had heard a ruffle of grass behind her she had trouble rolling over and aiming down her sights on her back. If a left behind boar had come to jump on her now, some unseen threat, she'd be ready.

The threat that was was only the misguided mistake of an elf.

The elf threw her hands up, the mystical orbs around her illuminating the darkness had gone out, and what was left was simply a mother pointing a gun at her daughter in the surprise she never intended.

"Chuka?" Bannon whisper yelled, lowering her sights.

"Oh my! I'm so sorry Mother!" Chuka brought her hands to her mouth, bowing out her legs uncomfortably as she spoke at a volume that Bannon did not appreciate, going back over to her stomach and looking at the herd.

"Dear. Please. Shush up and get down low." She growled, not even hiding her gravelly voice.

Chuka squatted immediately, holding hand to mouth for a few moments as the sound of the herd below came about again. A hymm of snorting was one way to describe it, but Chuka didn't see, not over the crest of the hill.

It was when Bannon saw her daughter's visible confusion did she gently motion with her hand to have Chuka come up, next to her, and show her what she had seen.

"Why are you here?" She asked, perhaps not as a mother should've."

"I was worried about you Mother. Father tells me that hunting should never be done alone."

Bannon groaned silently. "He says that so that you don't worry."

"But…" Chuka looked back into a memory Bannon did not share. "Doesn't he have hunting partners? Wasn't Uncle Maercer?"

"Chuka. It's early. Mommy does not have time to explain."

"Mommy?" Chuka didn't understand the term. Bannon felt the agitation in her eye again.

"If you keep bothering me, I'll send you back… you shouldn't even be out here?"

Chuka quipped back, sassy, but sad at her mother's harsh words. "Isn't this Father's duty? He is the one who did this back in our village."

The words floated in the air for a few moments, Bannon having no false excuse to give. No. The only she could say was something she actually believed.

It was a rare moment to have Bannon come out, to speak, to share a heart to heart with a woman that needed one, from the heart of a woman who knew what it was like to lose a family in a way.

Bannon sighed at the implicit gender roles, the duty of a man, or maybe the traditions of Dewan. She eased out of her prone position, sitting cross legged, but still ready to take a shot as she crossed her left arm in almost a hook, left hand grasping onto right shoulder. The rifle laid on top of it to balance.

"There's going to be a day when I'm not around, Chuka." She sat on that hilltop, watching the sun rise and all of its burn. With all barren green rolling hills and valleys, it reminded her of home in a way. Less mountains to cut open the clouds, but the sky was the same, the air, the ideal of an American frontier still alive upon rolling terrain untouched by the America of today.

Chuka had settled down next to her supposed mother.

In reality Bannon did not detest the elf. No, far from it. All the pity and empathy in the world that came upon her had its fair share due to Bannon's contributions. She was just in a special position, and she would not settle for it.

She hated her circumstances, not the reason.

"What do you mean, mother?"

"It's just a matter of being a parent, my daughter. Your parents will not always be there for you. Trust me, I know." She spoke as Bannon from her heart, even with the mask. "Doesn't mean that we're dead, or something like that, but we won't follow the same path you do. It would be impossible, and irresponsible for us to do."

They looked upon that hoard of pigs. Maybe twenty strong, brown fur covering a body of gamey meat. She knew what it tasted like, she knew how to prep. More than that she knew how to shoot in a straight line at two hundred yards without a sight.

"If Hodor… is not here anymore. I will have to change. If I am not here anymore. He will have to change… You will have to change."

She wasn't a sniper, nor was she Masterson with his refined aim and shot placement, but she had been as proficient as any SOF would be as she held in her ragged breath and felt her body go still, her one eye dialing in on the iron sight of her Lee Enfield, seeing nothing but a target on the other end.

It wasn't anything she wasn't used to as her trigger finger curled in, pad on the slice of metal, and pulled.

The loud crack, the boom of the gun and the supersonic of the bullet, had rang throughout the dark land, the hog hoard in the distance running and scattering away as Bannon dropped the rifle lower only to rack the bolt.

Her father owned a bolt rifle like this: an old Mauser, refined and oiled to a sheen meant only for shooters who hunted the finest game. She was never allowed to hold it, but she thought this was what it was like, during the days it was brought off the wall in their manor.

The shell had tumbled to the ground, she picking it back up as she stood up and kept her rifle ready, aimed down range, unable to know if she got a positive hit on target until that crowd had dissipated and went to the winds.

What remained was one brown lump of a creature amidst the dewed grass.

It was squealing.

It meant that was a hit.

She slung the old rifle over her shoulder as she beckoned her daughter to come with, taking the steps down the slopes of the world.

"When was the last time we had this type of creature dear?"

"… Never. We only started eating meat when we joined with the Americans and the Japanese."

Bannon had counted herself lucky then as the sound of turning and tossing on bloody ground intensified as they got closer.

How many times had she seen this? How many times had there been a man dying at her feet in the last few months begging to die or to kill her?

Enough for her not to care anymore as she felt around her belt for what she needed in order to silence the beast.

The knife in Bannon's pocket was a utility knife from her Leatherman, her combat knife left back with the convoy. It would have to do however as she steeled herself and did what needed to be done. No creature should've bled and suffered like this. Not a hog, and especially not an elf.

Chuka was surprised by how quick her mother had gone to her knees at the hog's throat, dived in with her right hand towards it, and pushed all the way through.

As far as bloody jobs go, the cut had been clean, even if the smaller diameter of the blade meant her hands had to almost follow the metal in. So it did, cutting across its throat, Bannon's other hand going to the pig's jaw and drawing it up to make sure it bled out as fast as it could, kicking and screaming all the way.

She knew how to kill and knew how to do it clean. To feel that final kick of a living thing was something Bannon had gotten used to. She felt it again as she let the hog's flesh slip through her fingers and let it plop on the ground, dead.

Bannon had barely let a breath fall out of her ragged lungs as the beast spasmed one last time in its legs and finally let itself out.

The hogs here in Falmart were no different than hogs in Texas. They squealed the same.

"Why have you decided to kill for the Americans, mother? The Japanese?" Bannon's dog tags remained underneath her shirt, hiding from view, she had almost went to touch them and remind herself of the name on them, but stopped just short.

"It is their cost to let them know we are their allies."

"To kill? Why would we be allies with such people?"

"To kill for one's country is a privilege-" Bannon stopped as she heard herself. "A responsibility. Yes. Responsibility. If we are to prove we are with the Americans and Japanese, we must prove that we can hold their responsibilities."

She kneeled down again, bloody hands, and looked to the beast's tusks to grab onto, almost carelessly twisting it to drag. Chuka made a horrified squeak as she heard a bone crack and pope as Bannon twist the hog's body to be dragged alongside them.

" _You've changed, mother."_

The words were cold, spooling into Bannon through her lungs and ghosts of smoke and gun powder, tasted on her tongue.

"War, changes you, my daughter."

Chuka didn't walk with Bannon initially, wanting to stay away from the dead pig she was dragging, however she did eventually, if only to speak to her mother the words of someone she knew.

"Clan Chief Crossun told me this once, Mother. Do you remember?" Bannon gave her daughter a sideways glance. "Every man, woman, and child are born with conflict in their souls. The only way we can save ourselves is to reconcile the violence in our hearts."

* * *

Most of everyone was awake when Bannon returned, dragging a corpse of a hog. It was certainly a sight that fit the woman: her belt tied around the back hooves and dragging it.

Rory had been a fan of mouth wash, she having spit some out the window of their Humvee as she saw the sight of a hunter coming back with the hunted. "I don't know how we've survived this long without our teeth falling out, Lelei."

It was an innocent aside, but Lelei shrugged. "Magic?"

It was an agreeable answer, and she had grasped her staff in preparation to help Bannon with the rather hefty corpse, however she was doing just fine. There was something, to Rory, that had been very arousing about Bannon. It was in the magically inclined persons there that could see, even those with barely a smidge of magical perception saw the distinct mark of every person there. Those who came to the Special Region came in without that mark, as one does a stench, but the more that those from the other world stayed, the more their personal musk had developed that could only be detected by the practitioners of the magical arts.

The one Bannon had, the one that could be seen in the snarl of her mouth in combat, the way she raised one lip to bear her teeth when angry, it was one of being _**feral**_. Deep down, deep deep down, Rory had smelt her like an animal waiting to be tamed and groomed and made into something more.

To everyone else Bannon just smelt like wild hog.

"Hey! Tankers! Raise your turret! Loke!" She called for the tankers and her pointman as she turned to Chuka, putting her bloody hand on her shoulder accidentally. The elf was squeamish upon it, but she trusted her mother, reactively putting her free hand on top of hers. "Dear, can you get me some rope? There should be some in our car in the trunk."

"Okay mother!"

Wilbur had given her a thumb up as the elf went back to their Humvee. "Chains. Turret up to the sky."

"Aight, give me a sec."

The tank hadn't been on for that matter, but the sound of it booting up after a few switches clicked and a few handles pushed and pulled had been a familiar ambiance that far into their trek. Maybe a little bit noisy, but nothing the military personnel there hadn't been used to.

Lumaban had walked over with Loke. "Didn't take you for a hunter, Sergeant Bannon." The Marine sergeant said, looking over the dead boar with little pity.

"Didn't take you as a Marine, Sergeant Lumaban." Bannon snarkily returned. The two women gave each other that wink of good sportsmanship, but Lumaban could do little to hide her concern.

"How is Chuka?" She asked. She still cared for her as any would. "Is she holding up?"

Bannon remembered this woman had cared for the elf perhaps properly than anyone else. She nodded. "Yes. She's doing okay. Maybe she's just accepting that her… mother, has changed."

Distantly, out of sight, Chuka sat with her back to the group and the world, eyes closed, not understand the headache that had taken over as the scars and scabs on her knuckles became more and more irritated. The bandage wraps around them could not hide them from her discomfort and what truly lay at the heart of those wounds.

Someone should've checked up on her. But no one did. No one would care if she, while getting the rope, took a breath she didn't know she lost and recollected her broken mind as best she could, as she did every day since she met them.

Lumaban shook her head, eyes closed. "A lie upon lie, sergeant. I'm sorry it has to be like this."

"I wish it were different. Truly." Bannon's voice made that caring statement sound harsh, but she meant it.

Lumaban could only nod in response. "Me too… such a shame. They tell me she's a very good musician, singer… that sometimes you could hear that little string instrument of hers ring out from the forest that they set up her cabin in."

Bannon remembered that harp like instrument Lumaban spoke of when she and Itami spent nights with Chuka. It sounded like heaven, or rather, the forest on a bright summer's day: the light cascading through leaves. She remembered what she had played too.

"You taught her the melody to Amazing Grace, didn't you?"

Lumaban let a laugh fall out of her mouth gently, strands of black hair sticking to her face in the morning.

"There are indiscretions that I see the troops here take every day, Sergeant Bannon. I've seen one of the tankers get intimate with one of the maids. Seen JSDF take photos of the more provocative women here; trade modern amenities like mints and candy for things as simple as trinkets. I think what I've done is a little more substantial."

Loke had finally spoken up, nose tickled by her worn down hijab. How it had survived this long, acting as a neck gaiter and scarf, was a mystery, but its purple color had been worn down thin. "It's very Christian of you Perla. Maybe a little devious, don't you think?"

Perla's rosary beads and cross in her palm had never left her, she holding it up to the morning light for both other women to see. "I'm sure I will be forgiven at some point."

Chuka returned, and so did Nara, handing her the rope. "Thank you."

The great cannon of Kingdom Come angled up all the way it could, as if waving at the sun itself. Before it had even settled Bannon had tied the front two hooves of the boar together, holding one end of the rope as she herself walked to the front slope of the Abrams, only to jump off of it and onto the turret, looping the rope over the barrel on one end and then dropping with it. The hog was moved up, hoisted by the turret as Bannon motioned and grunted toward Loke to drag her down. The pointman had grabbed her sergeant by the waist to pull her down, Perla not needing an order however to take her heavy rucksack off and see the knot Bannon had made at the end of the rope: looping a loose strap through it and weighing it down.

Like a crucified man the pig was held up.

The tank crew had hardly peeked out of their tank before the entire process was done. Just in time to see Bannon non-verbally beckon a watching Yao over and take her sword: bleeding it out as she traced the veins of the beast.

This was the first time the Rangers had seen Bannon do this at all, so they shared the same mystification in their squad lead as everyone else: the Marines, the refugees.

Quartering with even a weapon such as Yao's black sword, it was a strange thing to see as Chuka looked away as her mother traced skin and revealed sickly white fat beneath. Her wrist held no restraint, she knew what she was doing as the blood leaked out, pooling at the grass below as if sacrifice to Kingdom Come.

The smell was not kind to many, but they'd smelled worse, all of them, collectively. The feeling of blade through coat, through fat, through skin, was something Bannon had come to know during her vagabond days out of necessity.

Now it was out of comfort, out of convenience to not waste anymore food supplies.

There was a lot of blood as befit an animal of this size.

"Nara! Would you like to use my halberd?" Rory asked as the circle formed around Bannon, the tankers mouth agape, eyebrow raised. She asked for a reason, more than making Bannon's job easier.

She asked because she wanted to know if she could handle it.

Bannon shook her head no. "I'm fine."

The apostle was disappointed, but any idea of grief was put asides as she felt a small hand on her shoulder from a mage her size and, physically, about age. It was Lelei. Her eyes had been furrowed at the apostle uncharacteristically.

"She is far more precious than she realizes, mage." The Apostle saw that Lelei knew what she was doing. Testing her in some way.

To her surprise, she was liable to agree in a nod. "They all are."

They all came awake if they hadn't already, and looked, and saw, as Lisa Bannon went to work on the beast.

It was the sound of grunting; a woman taking her tool through flesh and all the sounds that came with. Like the tearing of rough leather with the occasional sound of moistness.

Chuka naturally turned away from the sight, her hand at her mouth, head ducked away behind their Humvee.

It offered Bannon the freedom to comment on herself.

"Hmph. If my mother could've seen me now, I think she'd faint."

"Because of the skinning a boar thing? Or because you ended up in the military?" Itami asked uneasily, next to her, not trying to realize that the sound of flesh being done away with was so familiar.

"Yes." The sword was whacked through along the legs of the boar with little grace.

Itami pursed his lips as he looked away, squeamish about this of all things. "Do your parents know you're in?"

"I 'unno."

"Bannon-Meyer, right? That the name of your parent's firm?" Doc asked aloud, looking as he thought Bannon to be a good candidate for a surgeon. She'd preferred if he hadn't asked, but he did lot lie. "I remember they put in money to my hospital a few years before I started practicing there."

"Mister Meyer was never pleased he didn't get the first name slot. But then again he was only Ian Smith's accountant."

"Who?"

Bannon shook her head as she held a flap of the boar's coat. "Nevermind."

The coat of the beast had dropped to the dirt like heavy rug, disregarded as the flies slowly came to it.

What had surprised everyone there the most was how casually Bannon had gone to the beast's neck, stuck the sword in, and started cutting away at it until the body became headless and Bannon held it in her hand.

"Dayum girl. You freaky as shit." For once Chains hadn't spoken nonsense as Bannon held the coat of the boar and its head in one hand, as if it hadn't been there at all. Bannon shook her head annoyed, opting to tossing the entire menagerie at the gunner as the man promptly freaked the fuck out, taking cover behind the tank as the head ended up on top of the turret.

Understandably the southern man, Dixie, hadn't minded as he looked as Bannon worked back on the hog with little pause, taking Yao's sword along the curve of the beast's belly, only to trace its ribs. The innards had all been quickly falling out as fast as Bannon could do it, flopping down on the ground in front of her.

It had been a source of awe as people looked on to see Bannon conjure a rack of ribs from the beast's body, she dropping the sword to the ground as she held it proudly, fat and meat as raw and as fresh as it could get. She turned around as she handed it off to Harris. "No rub. No salt or any of that shit. But it's all we got."

The man hadn't been used to handling raw meat, but he knew enough to see a problem with it and the size of the fire they had made.

Wilbur had popped out of the tank as soon as the danger was gone and raw meat wasn't at hazard at being thrown his way. He had a solution that might've been the first of its kind as far as he knew.

"Hey, Dix', lets warm 'er up, rev the engine. Turn our ass into a grill."

"One BBQ coming up."

"This'll be the shittiest meat ever, but we don't got all day to cook it right." Bannon was apparently the assumed grill master, and no one had any complaints about it. Not when she did it so naturally with confidence that only she had.

Bannon wasn't a butcher, but she had made cuts that look like something a butcher would make, and so, one by one they were each brought over to be toasted over the engine grill of Kingdom Come, and the smell of gamey pork had begun.

To warm up, to roast, to just cook and make it edible at the lowest level.

"Make a fire to finish off cuts coming off the grill. Just in case. I don't need none of y'all getting worms on me."

Some wire was fashioned as the suggestion was put out, being strung out and strung through long through the pieces of meat and put over the fire taut, spinning slowly as to catch the flame. It took maybe an hour for the whole routine to ever offer its first offering of meat, but it was worth it as far as anyone was concerned.

The return trip they would've run out of MREs and provisions and would've had to keep to eating off the land.

Exactly what they needed after slaying a dragon and saving an elven village. That was everyone internally thought of.

"I've never seen a beast quartered so… brutishly." Yao said in her broken English, perplexed as to how Bannon did so, the pig's head left to the ground and kicked out of sight by a Marine, pieces of brain and eye trailing. It was most she'd ever used a sword, even in that world, but she figured she'd get a hang of it at some point as the last of the meat was passed off of her and onto Kingdom Come. She stunk of pig but so did the entire convoy at that point.

"Are you complaining Miss Ducy?" Bannon asked a bit roughly. Yao had looked over to Wilbur for some sort of response, but Wilbur had none. There was never a right answer with Bannon that would've pacified her hard ass. So she shook her head as she took back the sword, flicking it to get the worst of the fluids and flesh off before sheathing.

Outwardly, the flesh looked disgusting: like burn wounds they'd seen during Italica. Frankly no one was willing to take a stab at it until Bannon did, her combat knife taken and diving into the crude rack of ribs that she had made. She tore off two bones from the slab, revealing ripped, thoroughly cooked, if not dry, meat beneath it. One sniff and it might've been a little burnt, but she didn't mind.

She liked toast a little burnt anyway. The crunch of burnt skin gave way to legitimate chewing and, as people who had been at the edge of life, taking lives had figured at that point, they took their bravery and used it to have breakfast.

Not before Perla said grace of course, some of her men inclined to join her.

Marines, Refugees, and Rangers. Itami was the last to indulge, this type of wild living he only heard of in stories from Masterson and whatever nature documentary of hard livers on the edge of civilization came on in between anime.

"I take it you guys go camping together often?" He presumed, taking his combat knife over a slab of unidentifiable cut and getting a slice in his hand, hot, but ready for consumption. Rory had been more than willing to use the side of her halberd as a plate, sharing her taken pieces with Chuka, almost as if feeding her. It wasn't what the elf wanted or needed, but it was either that or go hungry.

Black looked up from his rib, working through it warily. "Do I look like the camping type Itami?"

 _There was a type?_

"Well, uh, I don't know. I thought you Americans were big on that outdoor life. I mean, I don't live in Hokkaido or Okinawa so I've never really been exposed to things like…" He was sitting by the fire, eating a meal with a bunch of men and women with skills that would help them survive the world outside the city. "-this?"

Ortiz shrugged. "Never been one for camping. If some dumb ass border agent caught me camping he would've sent me to ICE."

 _"Aren't you like, Columbian Ortiz?"_

"No, I'm pretty Mexican."

 _"I'm so sorry."_

"Fuck off."

The banter of the Rangers fell into its common patterns again, ignoring the fact that this wasn't at all a normal thing to do. Nothing they were doing was normal and yet they acted like it. That was what Itami felt so uneasy about as he took from the same meat. Not like he had a choice.

"Some real Black Hawk Down Shit Ranger." One of the Marines gave credit to Bannon, having dug out the bullet that had killed this hog, tossing it her way. "You know? In that movie fuckin' that Delta guy does this same sorta stuff."

The bullet was caught as Bannon spooned a morsel of meat into her mouth by knife's edge. "Personally, I prefer Bison to anything." Bannon had gone off as she cleaned her knife with her mouth, the juice of the wild hog gone down her throat. "Back in Montana, my family used to have it, every Saturday."

"Really? Bison? That low-fat lean stuff?" One of her squad criticized her. "Why even bother?"

"There's something called preference Annel. I'm sorry I don't guzzle protein shakes like you do for a meal."

The discussion of meat had been a little more personal to two of the Rangers, they having slinked away and dealing with the brown slabbed bags of MRE meals designated for people like them.

 _Like them._

Jew and, apparently now, Muslim.

Nutt and Loke had stood off to the side as the rest had gone at the hog.

"It's a bit… much." The pointman said. She had eaten pork in her time abroad of course, even in college, but seeing a full pig it was different to her. It would've been easy to just explain that she didn't want to eat it as is for any sort of reason that Doc would've agreed with (even if the man himself was eating the meat too), but it didn't feel right to say that. It would've been a lie. There was another feeling about it. Something that came from who she was and how it bothered her soul.

"You think so?" Nutt rubbed his beard. "I ain't never had anything of the like so, eh."

The grenadier had expected a follow up from the Ranger beside him, having taken a seat on the hood of the Ranger Humvee, but there was nothing. He looked over, something wrong, something different about how Loke held herself that moment.

There was unease on her face and it manifested in the way she held both her hands and twiddled her thumbs.

"You okay Tal'?"

Loke had fallen too deep into her own thoughts. "Huh?! What?" She shook herself, looking back at Nutt.

"Why ain't you eating? I'm not because that stuff definitely ain't kosher but…" Nutt led his words, expecting Loke to explain, but she gave no answer as she made a noise in her throat and shrugged. "Uh… is it because it's a pig?"

"Little bit."

"But… I seen you eat bacon before Talia. You order them with your burgers."

Loke looked out blankly, at the campfire and all those who surrounded it. "I guess this is different then."

She looked out blankly, unable to explain herself. Her better nature had gotten a better of her and the gentleness that she had translated into her uncomfortableness. It was if she was shrinking, unable to find a reason for her illogical actions.

Lumaban had made her appearance, good, charitable woman that she was, walking over with pieces of meat like a platter, put out on a detached lid of an ammo can like a plate. She made a b-line right over the two.

"You guys eating?" She, as a veteran sergeant, knew the value of nutrition. Enough so to walk across branches to offer the Rangers not seeming to eat.

Nutt rose his hands, gesturing to the MRE's cooking on the roof of the victor. "Ah. No thanks, I got stuff cooking. I'm a practicing Jew so, you know."

Perla made an 'ah' motion with her mouth, pointing to Loke with an inquisitive eyebrow up.

"Ah. No thanks. I'm Muslim. Or well. I don't know. I'll opt out. Thank you."

"Don't know?" Lumaban rose her eyebrow. Her face was a kind face. One liable to guilt people, and guilt it did to Loke. "Respectfully, I don't think this is the time to have a theological crisis corporal."

Loke threw one hand, still unsure of herself. "I just… I don't know. I feel like if I eat that my mind will tell me to throw it up."

"But are you Muslim?"

"No." Loke blurt out, but she rose one hand half way up to her mouth almost to catch her words. Relenting, she sighed into the hand, lips formed into a straight line and a little aggravation coming over her. "Haven't been since high school."

Lumaban continued to raise her eyebrow, meat set down on the hood of the Humvee, arms crossed, rifle bumping into her leg by the sling. "High school wouldn't be that long ago for you, yeah?"

Loke pushed aside some her bangs, her black hair not tied up yet, so similar to Lumaban's she noticed. She found a silver strand among them as she shifted it behind her ears. "Doesn't feel like it."

The Marine sergeant tilted her head in quiet agreement, but eyes still trained on Loke as Nutt uncomfortably twiddled his thumbs figuratively, staring out into the distance. Marines were to the point, and a Marine who had been as Christian as Lumaban knew what inner conflict looked like. She especially with the topic of god, or religion of… not knowing who you were.

"Why did you lose your faith, Private Loke?"

Nutt looked shocked as Lumaban hit her with the question, but Loke, she took it stride.

Loke was a young woman, almost the same age as Emerson, though both had aged in their own way. She had adjusted the remnants of her faith, her heritage, around her neck: a hijab. A silky, but now worn, cloth that was a stark shade of lavender and white. It was her own, one which she used to cover her black, almost equally silky hair. She was, for the lack of any other words, cute, playful, willing to indulge in some of the catcalls and the certain inclinations of serving with individuals who made themselves beautiful from training and discipline, but she was also disillusioned.

Her face grew from its usual content to disconcerted: once, in another life, she was a Muslim in America.

Once.

A happy family, immigrants from Pakistan in the 80s. She was born in the US, Michigan, a product of an American dream fulfilled with a father that owned a business and a mother that drove an Ice Cream truck. She was a normal American girl with an inclination toward athletics who was a shade darker than most others.

She was just another girl with cloth concealing her hair and daily prayers.

She was a good Muslim.

"I lost it because if I didn't, I couldn't be a normal person anymore." She talked to the sky, to her mother and father and her ancestors, hoping that they wouldn't blame her. She was born in 2004, the beginning of the end as America as her parents knew it: the beginning of the Forever War.

Islamophobia was in, accepted, brought to bear on Americans from other Americans. The people blamed for the attacks on the country would share the blame with all those that looked like them, that spoke the same language, that knew the same culture and prayed the same way.

The story of discrimination in America never changed, and this time, it became a systematic impression on a nation too tired of war, and too tired of the people (and all who looked like them) that dragged it out over decades.

Loke was one of these people.

"Imagine, every day, your parents would be threatened on their way to work, your mother's place of work burned down as your neighborhood is ransacked. Imagine getting kicked off the track team because everyone else wouldn't dare train with you. Imagine… just imagine." Loke trailed off, her face in one palm. "Imagine being denied your life because of a headscarf."

"I- I don't know how…"

"And above all, imagine _**turning your back**_ on _**Allah**_." Nutt might've not known prejudice as Loke did, but, as a knowledgeable scholar, he knew what the past of the Jewish people was like and what they faced. He was unable to know personally, to feel the pain of being discriminated as a person, but he hadn't not known camaraderie. The arm that hadn't been holding his rifle had momentarily gone across Loke's shoulder and given her a side hug. Empathy could be given, but he knew he wouldn't understand.

"I'm sorry that was how it was."

She sniffled a sob that was barely developed before chuckling, putting her past behind her. "Must be easy being a Christian, huh?" She jest.

She looked to Lumaban one last time before she had walked around the other side of the tank, wanting some precious time for herself.

Lumaban kept on a straight face. Nothing about being a Christian for her was easy, not after what she'd done, but it was a trial of her own, and she wouldn't have had it any other way. Still, she was never abused on the homefront, or in her unit, for being one.

"Born again, right?" Black said, bringing Lumaban out of her thoughts. She nodded. "Overheard one of your men."

"That so?"

"Yeah… What deep, dark, bad thing happened in your past huh?"

Lumaban grasped her rosary beads, squeezing them. "None of your concern Ranger. Sorry for bothering you." She grabbed her pork again and moved on, but not before Nutt could offer some snide condolence.

The Ranger tsked. "Figured. Good on you though."

* * *

"You okay?" The chef of the hour, Bannon, had immediately stopped attending to the hog upon hearing that her battle buddy had been a bit down. She found her on the other side of the Ranger Humvee, sitting on her motorcycle, staring off and away at a visage fit for a Miyazaki film.

Peaceful. The only thing that didn't fit in it was them.

Loke looked over at Bannon, increasingly inching near her in small steps, testing her distance.

"I will be. Just uh, got reminded of some stuff. I'll be okay Sergeant Bannon."

She used formalities to assure, but Bannon wouldn't have it.

The sergeant rubbed her neck uncomfortably, looking over her shoulder and making sure no one else was looking over. Affirmed that there wasn't, she opened her arms awkwardly at first, smelling of smoke, pork, and whatever else that she had dealt with in that early day. "Hug?"

It didn't surprise that Loke immediately wrapped her arms around Bannon in a flash.

"You're such a sweetheart." Bannon had leaned into Masterson's premier pointman. As Hitman's second in command below Emerson, she had known what her men needed, and Loke needed some affection.

Loke had eagerly taken the hug, holding it for a good thirty seconds before giving Bannon one last squeeze and emerging from the crook of her neck. "Gosh, you remind me of one of my Sorority Sisters. Always acting like a mom even if she was, like, only two years older than us." There was appreciation in her voice and Bannon was glad to hear it, a rare smirk put even on her face.

It went away immediately however. "Corporal. Issues regarding your religious faith? Nutt told me."

Loke faked a laugh, the stench of pork heavy in the air and the deepest part of her mind told her it was haram. "Nothing. Nothing that'll affect me."

"Bullshit."

The pointman kicked a stone on the ground away as she latched off her sergeant, kicking it off and away. "Just seeing that pig, that animal, quartered and cut up and… you know, what you did..." She trailed off before gathering herself again in a breath, looking over her shoulder, to Lumaban, to Chuka, to Rory. "There's just a lot of time out here that I've had to spend with nothing but my thoughts. Gets ya thinking about things, you know."

"Mm." Bannon responded in her throat rumble. "Dangerous, ain't it?"

"A bit."

"Were any of the Marines giving shit? I know how they are with uh, people of your…" She didn't know how to word it.

"Yeah. I know, I'm brown. I'm Pakistani, I'm a shitstain goatfucker." She said with a little harshness Bannon never thought she'd hear from her out of combat.

"No I didn't mean-"

Loke sighed tiredly. A tired brewed by circumstance and not by lack of sleep. "I'm sorry. I might not think of myself as Muslim, but people see me and this thing," she gestured to the scarf on her neck. "And they get ideas."

"Look. I don't know what it was like growing up in a family that was Muslim, but I do understand what it was like if they forced to believe certain things." She spoke of Rhodesia distantly and her parent's insistence on their racial supremacy and beliefs. "And if it wasn't what you wanted-"

Loke looked almost insulted. "My family was happily Muslim. You don't understand, Sergeant Ban-" Loke caught herself. "Lisa."

Bannon nodded empathetically, her eyepatch thrown up so Loke could look at her in both her eyes.

"I'm happy that it was for you. I'm sorry if I said anything." She said caringly, perhaps almost as a mother could've.

"No. It's okay. It's just I never wanted to break out from that tradition. I was okay with it and how we practiced. I mean, the fasting was painful of course. Not having any water during those periods during Ramadan suuuuuccked but, it was all part of the process. I wore my clothing the way my father wanted to. I was used to getting up early because my entire family did. It taught me discipline and what was right and wrong and… and." To describe a day in her life after so long, it would not have done it service. She was once a regular person. Now she was a Ranger.

Bannon reached down and squeezed her hand. If Loke was a man Bannon had, in the back of her mind, hardly thought she would've acted the same if they had the same moral dilemma, but Loke was young and she was old. How old? Well, Bannon wouldn't admit. Not that week. Not that day.

"I mean, the ritual… it felt good."

Ritual. Bannon let that word pass by her mind. How often did she follow ritual but not really? Sundays at Church where she'd sit in at a service, only to wait for the charitable food at the end of it? To her, that ritual was comforting because there was a warm meal at the end of it in her homeless life. To Loke though? Ritual was more than something physical. It was more in that indescribable sense that no one can ever forget, but never explain.

"Maybe it's why I joined a sorority in college. Maybe it's why I came into the military. Maybe it's why I am who I am now." A Ranger in the 75th. SOF. One of the youngest female Rangers in the regiment's history and a damn good one at that.

Bannon knew what Loke craved: she craved the pattern, the ritual, the order and code, deeply seated in her origins as a Muslim American. Everything she had been afterwards was only a substitute upon substitute of a life she did not want, but lived anyway because, as fate would have it, she was good at it.

"Can I hear you pray, at least once, Talia? How you remember it?"

Loke pursed her lips as she let her rifle rest against the bike, unease written on her face, but fading away as she remembered who she was with. The pointman looked at her watch and saw the time. She could've. She needed to. Bannon was right in what she was trying to make her do.

"I'll do the Fajr prayer if you want." Loke said slowly.

"Just get out of your system, hun'. Whatever guilt you got in you, gotta touch base with it eventually."

"Hmm." Loke made a small agreement in her throat before going into action headfirst, just like she always did. "Hey, Wilbur! Your cape!"

The tanker heard and rose a thumb up from his position at the camp fire, not questioning, clambering back into Kingdom Come and throwing the two the ornate, red and purple cape of Italica and the Fromars.

The fabric of the cape, folded into a square on the grass had hardly been uniform; hardly been perfect, but it was the best she had as she had taken off her gear, her helmet, fingers running through the Hijab on her neck as, at that moment, she had let it come to rest over her hair again. It only felt right for it to assume its purpose again.

If she were to pray, she'd do it right.

She had owed the faith which she was born into that much as, in one breath, toward Arnus Hill, she began as the crusaders looked on, Rory entranced by the daily routines of a woman in prayer. It was the first time she had seen a Ranger pray.

First time she had seen this ritual of the Islamic faith she had heard so much about from Marines (often in scorn).

To her knees, palms open…

Though she had been years removed, Loke still remembered the movements, the words, the state of mind and how she meant the prayers of the day. It was in her heart, and made her who she was: an American Pakistani.

" _ **Allahu Akbar**_."

 _ **Arabic**_. Loke spoke Arabic.

Those words, even as a whisper on the winds, had been heard by one Marine, who turned his head over from the top of his Humvee and saw a sight he didn't anticipate. He didn't say anything, but his gaze was enough to attract the attention of other Marines, and then the Rangers, and then Itami, and then the Refugees.

Lumaban and her men had remembered the words as well, even Wilbur knowing the translations from his time in Africa. Not all was lost in translation however to the rest of the Rangers. Not as, one by one, they left their breakfast and came to join Bannon in observing Loke pray.

"In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful…"

Words heard in countries under siege, from cultures that threatened to be destroyed. Islam had been under attack in a crusade carried out by those who stood before Loke then. Whether a crusade on purpose or by accident, it was a war brought to the doorstep of a region who worshipped, who warred, over faith and fanaticism. The victims: the population who only fought, existed, and survived for the name of life and only life.

The toxic wall that was brought up around them, over their people and what they practiced, was perhaps the death sentence that was the call for the sandstorms of the Middle East to come and bury their most holy cities.

They never deserved it.

Humans are unique however among all animals. Animals kill when they need to. Humans kill, when they think they need to. There was a difference, and that difference caused a religious exodus made from neglect and apathy, misunderstandings and hatred toward a religion whose, as Loke finished off her morning prayers, wanted nothing but this:

One by one, Loke did an unanticipated thing, going to the circle that surrounded her and offering her hand to each, whispering words that only each of them would know personally. One by one she had held their hands. One by one the message delivered. The message of Islam. The primary teaching from a _**Religion of Peace**_.

She didn't even pause when she held onto Chuka's hand and squeezed and delivered the words.

Didn't even consider what Lelei would think when offered words from a deity.

No thought given to how Yao would take the blessings of this particular religion.

No shame hidden, pride allowed, as she kneeled before Rory, took her hand, and said:

 _ **"Peace and blessings from Allah be with you."**_

* * *

 _manifest destiny_

" _ **None of you have faith until you love for your neighbor what you love for yourself."**_

" _ **Whoever wishes to be delivered from the fire and to enter Paradise should treat the people as he wishes to be treated."**_

 _The Prophet Muhammed, from the Sahih Muslim, the hadith (saying/tenant) collection of Islam's main guidelines._

* * *

Itami didn't say anything as he still considered what Loke had said to him himself, but he didn't show the cold pang of something strike through his body, emanating at where Rory had bit him all those days ago. He thought it was just the jitters from watching Loke pray.

For once, Rory was silent, entranced, unknowing of what to do as she was given the blessings of a God beyond the Gate.

It was strange, disconcerting.

Dangerous.

From what she had heard from the Marines regarding these he practiced what Loke did; these "Muslims", there was a certain level of fear that she found within herself regarding that religion that seemed reviled by those that knew it.

And yet Loke seemed so at peace with herself after saying it, reluctant to slide the hijab off her hair again and resume who she was today instead of looking into her past.

Ramirez, having felt the warmth of Loke's hand come and go, remembering all the time he had heard the morning prayers be done from his bases a world away, remembered what mission they were on and ordered.

"Saddle up. We're less than two days away."

* * *

 ** _Falmart - Warlord 1-3's Unit - ?_**

 ** _40 hours until contact with Clan Ducy_**

* * *

They rode on still in their own quiet, following a path that brought them increasingly closer and closer to the Schwarz Forest and the Roldom Valley. In the territory of the Elbe Fiefdom there had been much more signs of life however: treads of carts, the distant image of villages on the horizon along with wildlife that had come accustomed to living alongside developed societies. Occasionally a horse, ridden on or feral, would wisely get out of the way as the convoy passed.

They rode always with their own authority, unable to be explained, but with an aura that could only come with people unafraid of the world around them. Small talk could only go on for so long over their radio, and all that was left was the silence they had wanted to avoid, filled in with music nearly as old as them that was never truly enough.

It left them in a lazy daze of almost automated movement, following Itami's Humvee like coasting on a highway.

They didn't see the only town that was in their direct path come up on them. Not even when it could've been seen from miles around by the pillar of black that erupted from it, surrounded by those same green, lush plains that offered their own version of snow blind the more they travelled.

Wreckage and destruction; war had been there, and it filled the air with a colorless smog and an odor so heavy the more concerning crusaders there held cloth or masks to their mouths as they approached and stopped in front of it. They stopped in front of it because it was what they were drawn to do as curious men and women in a world affected by them.

Another burning village, another destroyed visage of livelihoods and dreams going up in smoke.

Chuka immediately froze as she looked out and saw the burn, the smoke, her fingers beginning to tremble as everyone in their Humvee started to scramble.

"Hit her again. She doesn't need to see something like this again." Itami had said to Lelei, she nodding and understanding.

It had looked like Dewan Village all over to Bannon's and Itami's recollection.

As Lelei had said the spell softly, magical sparks flying over Chuka's frowning face before she even said a word.

Wilbur had leaned out of Kingdom Come's turret, the tank having pulled up next to them. "Bypass or not lieutenant?!" He half yelled, the radio picking it up.

Itami had looked over through the windows, out toward that burning landscape of a village. According to Kurokawa he had been a humanitarian in some sense, so he couldn't say no. Not before he had checked out the town with Bannon.

"Grab a fireteam sergeant, we'll poke our heads in." Itami said once over the radio, leaving the Humvee to Lelei as the two soldiers dropped out.

 _"Copy all. Lumaban, keep with us."_

 _"Copy 1-3."_

"I wouldn't go, if I were you." The two of them had turned before they left, the apostle that said that knowing best. Her fingers had been at her lips, staring outward, not inward. "There are some things worth not knowing. And this town holds no real interest to you."

Bannon raised a corner of her lip, snarling, looking at the smoldering remains that had been too a common a sight. "Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought it back."

"Does it?" Rory rolled up her window, Bannon's plate carrier and rifle brought back to her by Loke and Nutt.

It felt like her own skin to have gear back on after so long, to have a modern rifle back in her hand as she left the Enfield back in the car.

Ramirez had already called for a dismount before Bannon could.

"Kept it safe for ya." Nutt handed Bannon's M4 over as Loke tightened the back straps of her plate carrier to make it fit over her shoulders. Bannon could only garner some sort of nod in response as she took her rifle back and sighted up the microdot she had on it.

"Thank you corporal."

Loke had lightly wrapped her arms around Bannon in something of a hug as she finished putting Bannon's kit back on. "I miss it when you dress like this."

"Yeah. Me too."

Nutt looked back out upon the burnt down town, sniffing at the air. "Shit's fresh. Still feel the damn heat from it. Just missed whoever did this I think."

"Flame dragon?" Loke asked the grenadier.

Bannon shook her head as she answered for him. "Negative. Chuka's village didn't look like this. It was more absolute. Here at least some of the building skeletons are still up."

The work of man was never perfect.

Doc looked distressed as he kept his SCAR slung behind his back. "You don't expect me to hold a mass casualty collection on my own, do you Sergeant Bannon?"

"Intel collection Corporal Lamareux, we're not on a SAR Op." She responded cooly.

Itami had arrived behind them as the convoy went and took the long way around, Rangers congregating around Bannon.

Ramirez had looked over Itami, barely any gear on him. "Where's your rifle lieutenant?"

Itami cocked his hips as he stood, hands akimbo, seeing the destruction before him and how absolutely black it had been from torch and flame. "I don't think I need it."

The loading of a shotgun was heard as Ramirez pushed his 590 into the lieutenant's chest. "First contact always begs to differ, respectfully."

"You people are too serious about this, you know?"

Ramirez shot daggers at the lieutenant, but it wasn't anything he hadn't heard before from freshly graduated officers. He knew better the gravity of their situations, a situation punctuated by the racking of M4s and the chambering of rounds.

Harris had shaken the lieutenant' shoulder as he passed them all and taken a knee, habitually taking security. "This looks hostile to me, respectfully, sir." His M60 was out and wielded as if it was a rifle to him though. That is what gave him the confidence. "Nothing we can't handle though."

 _"Hooah."_ The hushed confirmation that reverberated throughout the Rangers.

Bannon had habitually raised her left hand above her head to do the sign language known only to operators, flattening out her hand before pointing her index and middle finger out, flicking them up and down the town. "Filter through. Watch your footing and don't go into any buildings. I don't need to be digging your asses out of anything."

"Sergeant." They all responded.

"Loke on me. Rest of you, go."

The Rangers all snapped toward the town, rifles momentarily up before they spread themselves out in pairs and entered. Their boots had crushed before burnt dirt and debris, going past the first buildings of the town that had remained standing before finding themselves on the various streets. It was the same as any town in Falmart: born from either being a resting point for a trade route, a market of some sort, or had been an important junction for the Empire during their expansions outside of its Capital. Whatever the case it had been here and existed up and until today.

Itami, out of lack of better option, remained with Bannon, holding his shotgun uneasily as he slung the sling around his neck. He had pumped the shotgun back, realizing it had been unchambered, the pump forward loading in a shell. The Mossberg 590 which Ramirez had had been an older weapon of his apparently. The man was simply a rifleman, and had no real reason to use the full-length shotgun as it was, but the weapon did see use.

Very much so.

This was not the first time it had seen a burned down habitat. Hardly.

There was an initial jump and over which the trio had to take as they walked over some debris which allowed them to enter the town: fallen wood and broken carts, stone and rubble burnt black by the fire that engulfed it.

 _"I'm not seeing any stuff they'd use for catapults."_ The net opened up as they began to sweep through the town. It had been Nutt reporting again. Of everyone who had known the theories behind destruction it had been the explosives expert that he was. _"No packed-up gravel or rocks I can tell. And I don't see any leftover ignition agent that'd point to incendiaries."_

Bannon had led the trio, center of the street their vision turning black with ash and the heavy heat offered by the remains. Her gloves had reached out and touched the collapsed skeleton of such a building, remembering the elf arm she had pulled out of Chuka's village what seemed like so long ago.

It was nothing but splinters and supports, the particular building she touched as she tried to garner any information from it, Loke and Itami doing the same as they poked their heads around any particularly interesting heap they could see.

Perhaps what was most interesting was what they couldn't see.

 _"No bodies. Harris, Annel? You see any?"_

 _"Negative."_

 _"Ramirez here. Nothing."_

The three had been immediately sensitive to that very fact. In such an area of destruction they had naturally thought bodies were there and naturally ignored to keep themselves sane. However only now when they looked for them: none.

None tangled in the mess of burning pillars, caught underneath fire and rot wood, none burnt to a crisp on that street. Not even one seen as they entered that town and looked through it.

"It's a ghost town." Itami said, poking at a few burnt barrels of what had presumably grain with the bore of his shotgun. He heard a scoff over the radio.

Ramirez had been the one to do so. _"No town is truly a ghost town in my experience. With our luck there's a few Imperials here waiting to put a bolt in us."_

Itami held down his radio as he answered, his mind going to training, looking at every place a would be ambusher would be. He didn't believe it. "I doubt it'd be here, sergeant."

 _"No town is ever truly abandoned. If it is it's trap. If it isn't, there was always a reason about preservation or making the invader overly cocky."_ Ramirez licked his lips as he walked among the rubble in his sector. _"Recon teams do shit like this, Lieutenant Itami."_

"Yeah?"

 _"Affirmative. In my old Ranger battalion, during Iran, I was assigned to a forward group. We were among the first of the main invasion force to see what the air campaign had down to Iran… and when I was in Korea, I was in Seoul when the city fell; went to reinforce Pierce when it was liberated."_

"You sound like Pops, Ramirez."

Ramirez on the other line had shook his head, walking among the burn. _"Tragedies are never supposed to be seen alone lieutenant. At the end of the day they are dealt with, and felt with, together. But when you're out there? Tip of the spear? You're the only one who can understand and take on tragedies. You ever want to feel like you're alone in the world? Just shut up and take this all in."_

Distantly, Itami wondered what his RCT3 had been doing now in Akusho and what he had been missing.

He wondered of Kurokawa, and of Pops, Tomita, Kuribayashi… he wondered what his team was like without him: perhaps better. Probably.

"We got footsteps. Look like Imperial boots." One of the Rangers reported, seeing the tell tail signs of a cart's trail blazing through the street with foot mobiles in tow.

"Imperial?" Itami looked to Bannon. "Imperial troops shouldn't be out this far. Especially not doing this."

" _We_ shouldn't be out this far." Bannon responded in turn.

Loke brought her MP7 up to use the flashlight on it, peering into the black of one pile of debris she passed by. It had caved in on itself like a teepee, the door somewhat usable as she lifted the frame up, peering inside only to see a mess of what had been a dining room of sorts left behind: spoiled food, burnt chicken, had been at the very bottom asides wooden bowls and plates.

That was when she had drawn her attention back to the simple door and saw it had broken around knee height.

She'd kicked in too many doors to not know what that meant.

"Forced entry here." She reported out. "Definitely hostiles torched this place."

 _"Yeah, I'm seeing it too. Got claw marks on a wall here. Someone was dragged out."_

 _"Might've just been Imperials or someone telling the towns people to move or get booted. I dunno, maybe they caught wind of us."_ Ortiz guessed. _"It's not like we've been necessarily hiding our convoy and as far as I know the scorched Earth policy is still effect."_

The training exercises that often-brought America's Rangers together into mock towns and villages in America's west had been eerily similar to what they were in right now: an idea of an urban environment but not quite. Truly urban was something not grasped by this Empire except for perhaps on Sadera Hill itself and in Akusho.

Here, these towns, there were equivalent to suburbia: places where the common folk lived.

 _"This town was torched."_ Nutt made the observation. _"Closer we go in the hotter the debris. Started from the outside in."_ The grenadier had been touching his bare palms to burnt wood, observing. The man was born with thick skin, and, perhaps, that was what influenced his decision to specialize in explosives.

"Keep it tight people. Move toward the center." Bannon reminded, doing the occasional, slow, observing 360 with her body as she continued her stride toward town center.

What was perhaps a nice and vibrant town, unbothered by the conquests of Empires, was now rotten black and brown by ash and soot. The burnt shadows of what once was had been broken up only by the green and tan of the Rangers and Itami.

 _"Devali."_ A singular voice on the radio. Annel had seen a name, written across a broken sign. _"Town's name was Devali."_

She and Harris had stopped before a larger burnt building for but a moment, what remained of the signage putting this out as a place of medicine.

Bannon's one visible eye, eyepatch on, had clicked open. She recognized the name from Italica's ledgers. "Medicine." She responded. "This town produced medicine for Italica before we came."

Doc had tipped his head up at the mention of medicine, walking through his slice of the town. _"I've studied this world's medicinal history a bit. Of course, naturally, we're better at it… but there are a few things that fall into a category that I'm not sure we'd ever be able to replicate."_

 _"Like magic?"_ A Ranger asked.

 _"Hrmmm. Not even. We've got these health potions that can handle internal ailments like bleeding and bruising. Some numb the pain of broken bones to manageable levels. Some of them effect some users inherent "Stamina" when it comes to their magical prowess. Interesting stuff. Too bad I don't have the time to study it any."_

"I'm sure the boys back at Arnus are doing that." Bannon reassured.

Doc shrugged. _"I'd just like to know it's being looked at for the right reason. I'd hate for a private entity to gain rights to distribute these literal health elixirs from this world. Resources tend to get privatized like that in the medicinal world, especially with new discoveries."_

"Yeah Doc?"

 _"A bit. Perhaps it's part of the reason why I practice medicine here and not in private."_ Doc had shook his kit, feeling the medical kit he had on his back shake. " _I do more good here than elsewhere._ "

The Rangers picked up pieces of debris to peer inside broke buildings, seeing nothing to indicate anyone had been trapped in there. Just the opposite: no one had been buried alive.

It didn't take them long, but following the natural path of the once-town, they all eventually made their way to town center.

The truth of the matter was at the heart of the town.

 _"Wallah."_ Loke had said a swear in her family's native tongue, the sight dropping her into a more base language.

A slave market. The same as Akusho, cages and cages: their inhabitants suffering a rather grisly fate. For the lack of bodies the rest of the town had made, it was here that had made up for it. The smell was what they had recognized first, and thus, make them know what they had about to comprehend:

The way human flesh burns wasn't unlike any other garden variety meat. Like the beef or pork that anyone could put to the griddle. Of course, that had been meat bred for consumption, and so when human flesh burned, it smelled of meat and blood, the iron-y, coppery taste associated with blood brought to the sense of smell and rot. Combined with whatever gases a body had within it at the time, it hadn't been a pleasant smell. Far from it. It was a smell that, when known once, would've never left the recipient's mind for the rest of their days.

People had been, like the town, burned alive.

Not only burned alive: but burned alive like pigs to the slaughter, huddled together and crammed into cages meant for far less than had been shoved into them:

An entire town, thrown into not that many steel cages at all, and then set alight.

The Rangers all converged on the town center at the same time, but none could move forward as they paused and saw the details of the cages that were outside of their full definition to them. They didn't dare move closer until all at once:

Just a black mass, like disintegrating mannequins, propped on top of each other, some burned with their hands grasping at the bars, flesh melting into metal. It was rather Orwellian: a box of horrors. People inside had all tried to reach their arms out through the bars, so as their skin turned black it all became an unidentifiable mass that sprouted arms.

In front of this site: lumps of bodies, headless, burned as well. All men.

Maybe, if this was their first time seeing such a sight, they would've known horror for the first time.

But perhaps more horrifying, it hadn't been their first time.

How many had been burned alive during Italica? Their bodies melding to armor and the dirt below? Maybe that was why body disposal was so easy post-Italica. Most of the damn bandit and Imperial Army had been halfway to ash already.

"Reminds me of _Daesh_." Loke had reminisced on several of the more publicized execution methods of the Islamic State, the grisliness not lost on the Rangers and Itami as they stood on charred land. The Pakistani had gripped the hijab around her neck tighter as she held it over her nose, cringing at the sight that Bannon had seen once before in Akusho.

"Think Omar would say the same?" Annel said behind his own face mask. The Kurdish Ranger had been there when both Turkey and ISIS came to attack Kurdistan in the lead up to Operation Open Wind. He'd seen the Islamic State first hand.

Itami was uncomfortable with how easy it had been to view the sight. "When a town burns down, I doubt people will want to stop and let the slaves free."

"These fucking people really don't appreciate the value of human life, huh?" Annel could be heard chewing- grinding, her gum through her jaws.

"These people aren't human beings to them. Remember that." Nutt reminded them of the obvious traits of how slavery worked.

They were all looking at it from the wrong angle however.

 _"That's too many."_

Ortiz spoke softly as he often did. He was with Bannon in Akusho when she and Emerson visited the slave markets. Bannon looked down to see Ortiz take the first steps into that roundabout square, rifle down and his goggles taken off as he squinted at the cages.

"Problem, private?" Ramirez took the steps with Ortiz as he neared the cages, ushering the rest to move in toward them.

"That amount of bodies. It's too much. Even in the Capital of all places the cages weren't that packed."

Bannon heard the rising urgency in the rifleman's voice. "What do you mean Ortiz?"

The man stayed silent as he approached, looking over to Doc and beckoning him forward.

In his rush Ortiz had touched upon the dead in the cage, their charred and blackened skin not unlike some of the meat of the hog they ate earlier. One of the many outstretched hands had been taken in Ortiz's own, the man, thankfully, wearing his Oakleys. It was as if the man was checking for a pulse, taking the body's wrist and holding it over.

Doc approached and took a knee with him as the rest of the squad moved up.

"What're you looking for Damien?" he asked.

"Remember when we had to count slave bodies during our mission to that one plantation?"

Doc never remembered a corpse lineup of innocent dead. He remembered out of his moral self, and of his medical mental index.

"Yeah."

"You said that slaves usually have heavy scar tissue around their necks, wrists, and ankles. You know, their chains dig into them."

Doc raised a thin eyebrow as he looked at the hands that sprouted out from that mass of bodies.

The hands, due to having clawed desperately for escape, had been kept more or less unburned.

The details they held were now revealed. "Why the fuck do slaves have jewelry?"

Ortiz touched his chin, covered by his balaclava, Doc deep in thought. The two men had gradually, slowly locked eyes in ways only people with an unspoken truth just discovered could. If Doc still had any eyebrows he would've flared them.

While Ortiz and Doc had their revelation that spanned no more than ten seconds, Ramirez had made out his own as he saw what he had only assumed to be a blackened ball at his feet turn into, as he recognized it, a head. If there were details to the face to give it identity he could not see as it was kept in the ground by a sword like a post.

The decapitated head had died obviously in pain, its face held in anguish as the strike that pulled of the man's head was taken. It was only post mortem that the sword had been pushed diagonally through his blackened, crisp head, pinned to the ground.

As a police officer Ramirez had been used to pointing out crime scene details to the detectives on duty. Often being the first to the scene he'd been more than diligent to point out any details he'd notice before handing over the jurisdiction. Smears of coke, holes in the carpet, shells ejected, smells and blood splatter.

He was good with details.

As was the reason he put his boot down on the head and slid it off the sword in a grisly fashion: like a knife against burnt toast.

He might've been old, but he was not blind as he realized he recognized the sword.

He recognized the initials in the Lingua Franca on its hilt.

He knew what that _**C.H**_ meant as he looked from the sword to the people. It was the mark of a legionnaire they killed yesterday and left behind in a ditch. His sword? Taken by a new owner. An owner who came here.

Metal tumbled out of his hands as he himself stopped thinking of the slaves in the cages as just slaves, and rather, as people.

 _ **"Fuck."**_

He didn't yell his knowledge, didn't let it out of his lips in a desperate attempt to keep in unreal. There was no avoiding it however as the squad heard his word: cold and heavy.

Ortiz and Doc had shared their wordless horrors and immediately stood up and backed off, backing into Ramirez as they began to shake heads.

"Ramirez? George? What's wrong?" Loke reached out for the veteran, but not before realizing what he had dropped out of his hand had brought this knowledge as he stepped back and brought his hand to wipe at his mouth, keeping in a breath as he turned around.

"We need to move." He answered in turn, holding his rifle tightly against his chest and starting to walk around, no destination, just to move, to keep his blood going and to keep it from going cold.

Loke shrieked into her hands as she realized what Ramirez knew, the woman also recoiling, her feet taking her as far away from those cages as possible.

" _No no no no no no_."

To hear Loke shriek at all, after all they've been through had brought all the Rangers to battle ready, safeties unlocked as Itami looked around at a danger they could not see, his shotgun pumped reactively.

"What what what?!" Harris took a knee and leveled his M60 outward.

The danger was inward however.

The flies were suddenly noticeable, their buzz heavy and hot, going at cuts and lesions and cooked flesh. Popped eyes and exposed organs having slipped out of a box of horrors as it was revealed that this was what freemen could do.

Doc's rifle clattered to the ground. That was a habit now: his panic making him drop his guns. For he felt it as heavy as any weight he'd ever carried, any burden that had been with him. The measure of a gun, of a rifle, of all their marksmanship trials and training, had been specific:

They were operators, and one shot was one kill, their fire selection switches on their guns very rarely moving to anything more than semi.

Every shot had purpose, and every trigger pull was meant for only one person at a time. That was the extent of the damage that was done with a bullet ideally.

Here, Doc, among the others as they realized what they had done, the bullets they fired had killed more than intended, and in the end, they would be to blame for killing the innocent here.

"Aw shit." Ramirez had known the sword he had held up into the sky: the same blade with the owner's family markings emblazoned in its grip. As crude of a phrase as it was, it was the politest string of words that had been uttered as soon the Rangers realized who had done this. More damning still was Bannon's silence as she herself finally realized, hand at her mouth, both her eyes wide, even behind the eyepatch as the Rangers all sprang up and wanted to just levitate away from that damned ground.

She didn't know what she wanted to do, the tips of her gloves gracing the edges of her mouth. _She wanted to tear her own teeth out. She didn't know what she wanted to do._

" _ **The slaves that we let go came back for this town.**_ " Nutt's words had damned them all in a world where damnation was disguised under beauty and charm. _**"This is the slave market they came from."**_

 _"Oh what the fuck-?!"_

Like a wave, a pulse, the Rangers and Itami all backed off from the cages backwards, as if it was alive and posing a threat, their heels kicking dust and ash. All of them but one of course. Bannon stood there as the ash floated around her. Wherein some of her squad had panicked and hacked some of the debris and dust in their lungs, Bannon did not at all, for she felt nothing as it penetrated her breath, her lung, her heart.

She didn't even know she took an ash heavy breath, and held it.

 _"Why did they do this? Why?!"_

 _"It can't be them! It just can't! It's not possible?! How would they-?"_

Bannon saw something as she held her head down and blinked. She thought it a vision, a mirage, but the flash that caught her vision remained when she kept it square in the middle of her vision. She saw it with _**both**_ her eyes.

The voices of her squad had tuned out as Bannon had kneeled back down into the ash and saw the silver that had once adorned her neck for years. She couldn't believe her eyes. Not when she closed her good one and saw it with even her damaged eye. She was beyond questioning for some reason: beyond wondering why there was a cross in her hand from a necklace she knew, donated to a slave boy she thought would need it more.

It was back again, and she did not argue why.

Whatever reason, whatever why there was none to be found as Bannon had picked up her necklace again and wrapped it around her hand, closing her palm before closing her own eyes, the ringing in her ears becoming deafening as her ragged breaths filled her head, fighting with the yells of her fireteam all fighting with each other in a spasm of blame.

 _"Why would they come back?! Why did they burn down this entire town?! Why did we let them go?!"_

 _ **"We didn't have a choice!"**_

 _It was the right thing to do._

The death of the innocent was the cost for justice. Those caught in war would be dealt with no mercy as the right, moral choices were taken, and they were cast as collateral damage in a world that had made it acceptable. Collateral damage was what the military called it: to avoid the reality that in the end, whatever call was made that day, whatever needed pragmatic military technique was performed in order to complete the mission or fulfill some ethically correct inclination, they were as complicit in killing the innocent as the people the method of termination was intended for.

Necessary evils were still just that: evils.

The justifications, the reasonings, the excuses and moral battles fought and they had thought gone past. It meant nothing as Bannon turned around to them all, her heels grinding in the black.

She let go of the dust and ash in her mouth, breathing a cloud, like a dragon.

 _ **"We need to keep moving."**_ Her voice had grinded through it all, all the arguments and the horror ceasing as the Rangers heard their team leader's words.

Had she just said that?

"What?!"

"We have to look for survivors Bannon." Itami had finally let out, arms wide and motioning toward the carnage. "It's our responsibility!"

He reacted to the reveal by doing nothing, feeling as if his feet were sinking into the Earth until he could collect himself and his blame. Their voices had become nothing but low, indistinguishable rumbles as Itami held his head, almost hyperventilating as he kept twisting and turning around, looking at it all, looking for a silver lining.

He was caught with people who were not his countrymen, in a world not of his own, standing as the progenitor of massacre.

"Responsibility? _**This. IS. Our responsibility!**_ " To hear Bannon yell in rage was an abnormality, as rare as rain in America's west. Unlike the rain however, her volume did not bring life. It sounded of _**death**_. "There's _**nothing**_ here for us, lieutenant, and we are not equipped to deal with any casualties!"

* * *

The convoy had made it to the other side of the town, waiting for the Rangers and Itami to make their way through.

 _"Hnnnggg."_

Rory moaned as Lelei drove the car, clinching her legs together.

"Something wrong apostle?" Chuka leaned in from the back seats, over Rory's shoulder as she tried to collect herself.

"No. Something's very, _**very**_ right."

* * *

Bannon wanted to move. _**Now**_. If she didn't she would have gone insane. One could argue they all were at that point.

If the definition of insanity was doing an action over and over and over again in the hopes of some different outcome happening despite the status quo stating otherwise, then the Americans knew that they were insane.

Once again, they tried to help a people enslaved by terror and slavery.

Once again, the saved had turned on them in a way that was worse than direct.

It always turned out that a people who lived under the guns of terror and justice, knew the worst of either, and would turn that upon the world.

Her feet had made her push past her crowd of Rangers, through Itami. Some had followed without question, some uneasily, some unsure, but there was no argument, even if Itami had one. They were on a mission, and they couldn't save everyone, especially when they were trying so hard to save one person.

However, a dark side of him had spoke at that moment: If he were one of those slaves, would he have not wanted revenge at its most absolute?

Wasn't he on a revenge quest too? To finish what they had started at the beginning of their story in the Special Region? To kill righteously was a dangerous idea, and there they were as crusaders looking over another crusader's work.

These people died righteously for their involvement in slavery, and, thinking like that, Itami had wanted to puke in his mouth.

"We can't do anything about this. Oscar mike." Ramirez had stated with resolve only a man as old as he, as veteran as he, could've justified.

Itami moved his feet, curled his fist, pointed at Ramirez. "You! You've seen _**them**_! Right?! The Taliban!? Al-Qaeda?! How did it start, like this?! How did _**that**_ war start?!"

The Ranger who had helped delivered the body of Osama Bin Laden to its final resting place had stopped his step as he turned his form and faced Itami half way. "What do you mean?"

"You've fought them, correct? Is this what it's like? To see terrorists come to the homes of the innocent, drag them out, and then kill them li-"

Itami spoke of an abstract idea mired in the past. Ramirez understood.

 _ **"You idiot."**_ Ramirez snarled, stopping everyone in their tracks. Thirty years' worth of war spoke with him "You truly thought I fought the Taliban? ISIS? Al-Qaeda?"

"Did you not?" Itami asked, pleaded, to know what it felt like. To know what they all felt now had been felt before by modern warfighters. He wanted to know if this was how it began: from a ragtag band of slaves to a system come to exact revenge that would brew nothing but more revenge.

"God. I wish I did. But no. I didn't."

"Then what the fuck were _**you**_ doing there? In the Middle East? I thought you were fighting against people that did stuff like this! _**We should be doing something about this!**_ "

Every soldier was a representative of their state, their nation, and so Ramirez had taken that weight again, and he spoke with history of his nation that he lived. "We fought against them ALL! At the end of the day there was no Taliban, no Al-Qaeda, no Islamic State or terror group! That's what we told ourselves so that we could keep fighting!"

"Then who did you fight!?" The shotgun which Ramirez had given Itami fell to the ground, combining with ash and dust and dirtying itself even more. All because Itami had walked to the man and clasped his shoulders. " _ **Who?! Who was the Enemy?!**_ "

Ramirez barred teeth, snarling as he dealt with a truth he had long since told himself. In the end, there was no difference between slave and Imperial, citizen and soldier, right and wrong'd. A tribesman today was an insurgent the next. A child one day, a man the next when they came and aged him by conflict and circumstance. The war they practiced now was all encompassing, and no one was spared. Challenge the world to battle, and the world would come.

* * *

manifest destiny

 _The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now -_ _ **with somebody**_ _\- and_ _ **we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives**_ _._

 _Hunter S. Thompson,_ _ **September 12, 2001**_

* * *

"Everyone. All of them."

Everyone was to blame. Everyone would be held responsible.

* * *

They emerged on the other side of that town silent.

Kingdom Come, the Refugees, Perla and her Marines had been there and waiting.

No one said anything, and immediately, Perla had wondered what had happened.

"Were there any survivors?" She directed her question to Itami. He stopped, but before he could say anything Ramirez seized his shotgun back from the lieutenant before returning to his motorcycle.

Even before he answered, there was doubt in Perla's eyes.

"Raiders did this town in. We couldn't find anyone."

He avoided her gaze as he returned to the Humvee, though Perla wasn't looking at him. Not when she had brought her own rosary beads and wooden cross in her palm and kissed it, holding it to the sight of the town, and saying a prayer.

For some reason, as Bannon stood by their Humvee and waited for Itami, she did the same. She took her silver cross necklace and held it out, letting it dangle in front of her sight in all of its silver glory.

Itami had come finally, eyebrow raised. "What are you doing?"

Bannon snarled at him with a curved lip, getting back into the car.

Though Itami was right to question: _**there had been no cross in Bannon's hand**_.


End file.
